


Sometimes The Moth Burns

by Trikkster



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Childhood Trauma, Deviates From Canon, Flashbacks, Gun Violence, Hallucinations, Kidnapping, Light Bondage, Malcolm Bright Whump, Nudity, Past Muteness, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, minor Jessica Whitley bashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-01-29 15:53:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21412741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trikkster/pseuds/Trikkster
Summary: Moths are attracted to light. What happens when moths go towards the wrong light? Malcolm Bright is about to find out. When he chased Paul into that service tunnel Malcolm didn't have much of a plan besides catching up with him. . . unfortunately Paul always has a back up plan.Instead of leaving Malcolm in the turnstile, Paul decides to teach Malcolm things Martin never got a chance to, whether Malcolm wants to learn them or not. And if he gets a bit of revenge on the kid that put away his friend, well that's just an added bonus.Can Malcolm stay alive with this violent killer? Will Gil be able to find them in time? And, will Malcolm finally learn what happened to the girl in the box?Story obviously is going to be Canon-Divergent from the turnstile scene in "Family Friend". I will try to have Malcolm as far in character as possible while keeping in mind his anxiety, injuries, and the fact that this is a serial killer that he's never truly encountered before. . . or has he?As I don't have much to go on for Paul, most of his character development and personality might be OOC for this story, but this is an idea I have had on my mind since watching the episode so I'm just gonna roll with it. ;)
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Gil Arroyo & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Paul Lazar | John Watkins, Martin Whitly & Paul Lazar
Comments: 87
Kudos: 198





	1. Friend Of The Family

**Author's Note:**

> So you guys, currently, I am OBSESSED with "Prodigal Son". As a psychology major I have had so many ideas for fics buzzing around in my brain, and after episode 8 last night. . . well let's just say I spent the better part of last night and the better part of today (an off day that I had so many plans for. . . aw well) getting this idea down and thought out! Basically a what if fic of if Paul didn't just leave Malcolm in that service tunnel.  
As stated in the summary, I will try to keep Malcolm as much in character as possible, but keep in mind that he does have generalized anxiety, ptsd, and numerous other disorders-not to mention injuries he will sustain in this story because, honestly, Paul is not the best babysitter-and he has never dealt with Paul before and therefore doesn't know quite how to react in some situations to stay alive.  
Since I am starting this story now, I only have a few snippets of Paul's personality to go on, so I will apologize in advance for any OOC-ness on his part. I basically took a few cues, my brain came up with a personality and past profile, and dammit, I love what it came up with and that's what I'm running with for this story. Regardless of the show, I will stick to that profile for the sake of the story, and hope you guys all enjoy the ride!  
So, sit back, read, and hopefully be intrigued by this different take on what could have happened in that tunnel!  
(btw did any of you guys realize that the guy who plays Malcolm also played Jesus in The Walking Dead? I KNEW he seemed familiar! haha!)

It was like Malcolm’s nose and forehead exploded as he was slammed against the stationary bars of the turnstile, a short grunt escaping his lips as both made contact. His head rang along with the doorway as he gasped, staggering back away from the bar, a hand reaching up to cup his now broken nose, blood already flowing from it, his vision swimming in and out of focus. Groaning, he shut his eyes tight as his mind tried to catch up with what was happening. One minute he’d been going through the revolving door to get to a killer, the next he was being whipped around and slammed into the bars before him. 

As the ringing in his head cleared enough for him to think straight, he opened his eyes and groaned, his world tilting a little, his forehead throbbing. Some blood from it trickled down over the corner of his eye. He quickly blinked it away. As his world tilted again he groaned, hand moving out and grasping clumsily at the barrier before him to stay upright. Assuming Paul had left after smacking him into the bars, Malcolm began to back away from them, to get out of the turnstile and figure out just what he was about to do. . .With an angry growl Paul slammed the moving bars behind him against Malcolm’s back, shoving him flush against the ones in front of him, making him yell out as his face, hands, and body were slammed against the metal again. 

Malcolm groaned, teeth firmly together, the movable bars of the revolving door behind him pressing him against the stationary ones before him. Luckily this time his chin and forehead had hit the bars, not his nose, but that didn’t make his situation any better. He was certain that his whole front would be covered in bruises, and his left knee hurt like hell from where it had been slammed against the metal rods, along with his pelvis and chest. The arm that he’d been gripping the bar with moments before was now pinned beneath the bar behind it, the metal pressing against his suit, causing the arm beneath the material send spasms of pain shooting up to his shoulder and brain. He was absolutely certain that would bruise up, but at least it wasn’t broken, he guessed. 

Glancing back at the firm hands holding the bars just above his head behind him, Malcolm swallowed hard, seeing the whites of those knuckles and knowing that the man behind him was determined to keep him trapped in this makeshift mouse trap for the time being. Even though he couldn’t see them, he knew the man’s dark eyes were glaring hard into his back. He could practically feel them burning into his head with their rage and cruel intent, and it made his heart hammer against its ribcage as if it wanted to break free and get out of this horrible situation. ‘I wouldn’t mind going with it if I could. . .’ Malcolm thought, gazing forward, trying to ignore how his vision seemed to shake as he trembled between the bars, trying to ignore how his brain was already shifting closer to panic mode at the idea of being in such a vulnerable position,trying to ignore how he was right in front of a man who had proven how deadly he could be. Malcolm sucked in a deep breath and shook his head just slightly, almost unnoticeably to the naked eye as he shut his eyes again, trying to compose himself.

No, he couldn’t think of the man behind him killing him. If he did that, then he would surely panic, then he wouldn’t be able to think straight. And he had to think straight. That was his gift, his weapon of choice. . . being able to outthink the killers he encountered and take control of the situations he found himself and others in. If he couldn’t do that now, he was as good as dead, he told himself. And if he couldn’t panic, he wouldn’t panic, he told himself firmly. Because everything would be ok. . . ‘It’ll be ok, he was a friend of my father’s, he wouldn’t really kill me, it’ll be o-’ he thought, beginning an inner mantra that he wasn’t sure he believed but that he clung to nonetheless. He was repeating it a second time when the man behind him chuckled darkly and jerked at the bars, making Malcolm jump between them as his eyes shot open, his hand gripping the bar tightening at that horrible, daunting sound, its jovial nature overshadowed by the sinister intent laced through it.

“Now don’t you go all quiet on me boy, you had no problem shouting my name before. Now I’m fucking right here, giving you all my goddamn undivided attention! So go on, tell ol’ Paul what you have to say.” the bigger man sneered behind him, and jerked the bar back only to slam it forward against him again. That ripped a yelp from Malcolm’s throat as his arm and his head exploded in pain, and he jerked his limb in closer as his other hand clutched at his throbbing head, feeling the blood trickling down from a cut on the back of his head, moving beneath his shirt. He shuddered, before the wall of bars behind him pressed him further against the bars before him once again, forcing him even more into them. 

“Finally some noise! Go on and sing little Malcolm! Think that team of yours will come for you?!” Paul laughed as if Malcolm getting squeezed between the bars was some great joke, the trapped man wincing as his forehead was pressed more into the bar before it. “Tell me,” the killer slurred, leaning closer to the bars, his spit hitting the back of Malcolm’s neck, making him jerk a little, “How many you got coming? 4, 5? How many people will get to see me kill you in this fucking doorway? Smash this wiry little body of yours to pieces until no one can tell who the fuck you are anymore? I gotta tell ya, I haven’t ever killed anyone this way before, but hell, first time for everything and all that shit, right?” 

Malcolm licked his lips and shook his head as best he could, blood from his forehead smearing on the bars, the blood in his eyes burning them before sliding down his cheeks, “N-nobody’s coming. I-I’m here alone,” he whispered, trying and failing miserably to keep the tremor out of his voice. With that he held up his arms between the bars in a further sign of surrender, trying to ignore how much his banged up hands were shaking. His right wrist was already beginning to swell from when it had been slammed into the bars in front of him, and his knee felt like it was about to burst out of his trousers with how much it had already swollen. Even if he did make it out of this alive, it’d be hell making it back to the station, he could tell. 

As he stood there, shaking between the bars, Bright couldn’t help but acknowledge how stupid he was, coming here after Paul alone. . . then again he didn’t know whether to be angry that he hadn’t thought to call for Gil to provide back up or relieved that he hadn’t. He had a feeling he wouldn’t have made it out of a standoff alive, after all. . . the mental image of getting beaten until he was a bloody mess as his team watched with horrified expressions filled his mind and his body began to shake. . . no, he definitely wouldn’t have made it out of that alive, he decided. . . not that he was sure that he’d make it out alive without his team either. . . He shuddered. . . no, he couldn’t think like that. . .’It’ll be ok, he was a friend of my father’s, he wouldn’t really-’

He whimpered again as the bars were pushed tighter around him, and tried to make his already lithe body even smaller by shrinking in on himself as the killer leaned closer. As his hot, alcohol scented breath ran along the nape of his neck, Malcolm shivered, opening his eyes to stare ahead of himself down the hallway from which he’d come. Damn how he wished he could just walk down it, far away from Paul and this horrible idea of his to come after the man. . .hell he’d run as fast as he could if he were able to. What the hell was he thinking?

“Now why would you run after me without calling your friends?” the man mocked him, not in a tone that didn’t believe him but one that would be used with a child that had done something especially stupid. Malcolm opened his eyes, shuddering as he gazed at one lamp that flickered less than the others, the incandescent bulb hanging by its single wire from the ceiling not even swaying as it hung straight in the air, the only thought in his mind being ‘My thoughts exactly. . .’ He knew that wouldn’t be a good enough answer for the man though, so he sought out another that was close enough to the truth to work. As he did so, he watched moth flitted around the light, oblivious to the dangerous killer who held the helpless profiler trapped just yards away.

“D-didn’t have enough t-time,” Malcolm managed weakly even as his head felt like it would split open if any more pressure was applied to it. “Liar,” the man snarled immediately, almost growling out the word, and leaned back away from him. Malcolm didn’t have a chance to glance back before the bars slammed back against him, making him jump and whimper as they pushed against him even harder than before, forcing him to stagger more into the bars at his front, his hands latching on to grasp them and keep him from falling to the floor. 

Malcolm grit his teeth again as the man murmured, almost in an encouraging way, “Now try again. . .” “P-please. . .” Malcolm pleaded, hating how weak and afraid he sounded, wishing the man behind him would alleviate the pressure just a little bit. . . “I SAID TRY AGAIN, boy. And no lying this time. That’ll get you NOTHING but pain,” the man growled out, applying a little bit more pain to the man before him. Malcolm whimpered softly, and whispered the first thing that came to mind, hoping it would be an adequate answer seeing as it was a truth that had existed ever since Paul had mentioned the girl in the box twenty minutes ago on the phone. A truth that if Malcolm was honest was one of the reasons he’d wanted to face the man alone. . .away from his team’s potentially critical eyes. “B-because I want answers,” Malcolm stammered, the pressure in his chest and head threatening to make him lightheaded.

For a moment the pressure remained, and Malcolm felt his heart stop as he waited for a reaction from the man behind him, hoping that since he had been honest with him about that some of his pain would be taken away. He licked his lips nervously, turning his head just slightly to the side, his bones straining in the vice like grip of the bars, his palms sweaty as he gazed fearfully at the bill of the man’s hat. . . 

And then just as the pain was there one minute, it was alleviated slightly in the next and he felt rather than saw the human predator moving up to stand behind him, that husky breath right back on his neck before. But this time the man was closer, way closer. Like there were no bars between them, “You know, I never realized how much you sound like your dad. . .” Malcolm shuddered, feeling the tears sting his eyes at the mention of his father, the words far less comforting than they would be to a normal person.

It was then that a firm hand reached through the bars, and grasped his chin in a tight, unforgiving grip. Malcolm whimpered, closing his eyes tightly as that hand held his face firmly pressing hard into his cheek bones. It hurt like hell, especially since his face was already damaged and swollen, but he didn’t dare move out of that grip, shaking all over as the man slurred in his ear, his hot breath making him twitch, “You even look like him.” 

That hand suddenly jerked him back against the bar behind him and he would have yelped if Paul hadn’t kept a firm hold on him, keeping him quiet and allowing only a muffled scream to escape through Malcolm’s closed lips as the back of his head exploded in pain. It was then that he felt that breath on his cheek as a nose sniffed his neck and face, like it was taking a good whiff of him, “You even smell like him. But you know. . .” 

His head was suddenly jerked forward and back against the bars again and he grunted a pained sound as his vision exploded in many bright dots and he teetered on the edge of passing out as the man suddenly jerked forward, slamming the bars against him again as he snarled in his ear, the bars the only thing keeping the dazed and injured man upright, “Even with all that, I could CRUSH you right now without a second thought, boy. In fact I SHOULD. Just like I CRUSHED the others before you found my work!”

Malcolm whimpered, tears racing down as Paul pressed against him even more, still holding his face in that tight grip, his fingernails digging into Malcolm’s already bloody cheeks. Malcolm wheezed, eyes shut tight. He was certain his ribs were at least fractured in places, and the more he got squeezed, as the bars very nearly crushed him like the man had talked about, the more he feared this was going to be where it ended, where he ended. 

The more he began to try to take in gasps of air into his lungs, the pressure on his torso making it hard to keep any air inside for very long, the more his heart raced and he twisted and jerked as best he could in the bars constricting him. His hands pressed desperately against the bar he had latched onto, trying fruitlessly to push them away from him as his heartbeat rang in his ears like a drum, counting down until it was all over. That thought only made his panic level rise and he began to sob brokenly, weeping as tears flowed down his face and onto the man’s hands as only one thought ran through his panicking brain: He didn’t want to die here! This couldn’t be how it ended!  
“Please!” he managed through his muffled jaws as his skull felt like it was about to split open. And just like that the man’s voice was back, angry and in his ear, “But I want to know how you did it, you little shit! How did you find out where I kept that FILTHY junkie?!” with that the man lowered his hand from his jaw and Malcolm panted, only some of the pressure leaving him, to allow him room to speak. For a moment that felt like a lifetime he huffed in deep breaths, staring and focusing ahead on the moth and light. When the man growled behind him and the bars jerked more against his back, beginning to squeeze him again, he knew he needed to speak.

“I’m a profiler,” he wheezed, heart feeling like it was hammering away in his throat, “It’s my job. . .” At that Paul growled and glancing back, Malcolm’s eyes widened at the jerk of the man’s head, before the pressure only intensified, the man clearly not liking that answer. Malcom shot his head back, panting, as the man tsked behind him, “Nooooo, it’s more than that! Tell me, tell me how you did it, or I will crush you! Right here, right now!” More pressure was applied, more than ever before and Malcolm screamed out, his words reverberating off of the walls of the hallway,“I told you, I profiled you! That’s all I neede- aaaaaaaah!”

“NO!” the man shouted and jerked forward, making Malcolm lean up on his tiptoes as he cried out. There couldn’t be more than four inches between the bars behind him and before him, and as his pelvis and ribs popped, knee screamed, and head creaked, he knew he was about to die. There was no way he could survive much longer like this. . . not if any more pressure was added. 

“There’s more to it, I know there is! How did you know?!” the man shouted in his ear as Malcolm twisted his head in the crushing grip of the bars, trying to alleviate the pressure on it with the new angle but finding that not even that was enough, screaming in agony as he felt like his body was about to explode from the pressure, a high pitched ringing in his ears outweighing his hammering heart. “TELL ME!” the man roared in his ear like thunder. “BECAUSE WE’RE THE SAME!” Malcolm half screamed, half yelled, tears streaming down his face.

Suddenly, the pain was lessened as the bar was slowly pulled back and he gasped, collapsing forward on the stationary bars before him., pressing his now bleeding forehead against them. He whimpered between gasping in breaths of sweet air, his arms now wrapping firmly around the bars of the turnstile, pulling him away from the bars behind him and the killer on the other side as he sobbed in both relief and fear as his heart hammered away and his whole body shook, barely upright as he leaned forward in an effort to stay upright and maintain a small amount of dignity.

His relief was short lived though when the hand was back, this time in his hair, reaching through the bars as it wove into his sweaty, bloody locks. Malcolm whimpered and twitched as it touched the part of his head that had rammed against the bars the most, but didn’t move away. He didn’t have the energy to, far too consumed by pain to muster up any strength. For a moment the man behind him seemed to revel in his latest sense of control, but then Paul growled softly, jerking forward and making Malcolm whimper as his face was pushed firmly against the bars again. The bars behind him could be felt lightly pressing on his bruised up back, and although they weren’t against him nearly as much as before, he understood the threat that remained there.

“Go on.” the man snarled, not in an invitation but a demand. Malcolm sobbed softly, wishing this whole painful conversation could be over. And swearing up and down that he would never go after a killer alone ever again if he made it out of this alive. He sucked in a deep breath, “My dad and I. . . He taught me all he knew about murder. . .That’s how I know how you think. . . I am. . . my. . . father’s son,” he managed finally. 

For a moment silence fell over the hallway apart from Malcolm’s labored breathing. He didn’t think a lung was punctured, but his rib cage was sore and his entire chest was full of agony, making each breath incredibly painful. Between that, his throbbing head, and pulsing knee, he had no idea how he’d make it back to the station now. He’d have to call Gil to come get him, the lecture of coming without back-up that would follow be damned. “You know, there are some things. . .” Paul pulled the brunette’s head further back, and Malcolm didn’t fight him one bit, all of the pain he’d endured in such a short period of time leaving him exhausted. In the next instant man’s finger was jabbing at his head on the side, making him whimper gently as his sore skull was prodded at, “You. Can. Not. Teach. . .It’s in your blood. . .” 

The killer slid his finger around to the blood trickling from Malcolm’s forehead and down his face, and began to smear it all over his skin like some grotesque body paint, “You know, your father, he thought he saw greatness in you. You were definitely daddy’s favorite.” 

Malcolm whimpered softly as the last words were practically spat at him, and closed his eyes as the fingers smeared his blood over his eyelids and brow. But he didn’t dare say anything to offend the man behind him. Not in either of their current states. So Paul continued, “Even though I said you were too young, he was so excited to groom you into a proper killer. . .He wanted to train you up so badly, so you could continue his legacy. . . and then what did you do? You fucking betrayed him. The man wanted to share his passion, with you, and you fucking got him locked up. . . What an ungrateful little shit. Still, maybe he’s right. . . There may be hope for you yet.” with that the man slapped Malcolm firmly on the cheek and moved both of his hands along the profiler’s arms as Malcolm winced, eyes watching with their fading in and out vision as the man’s bloody hands moved along his suit coat, leaving a blood trail in their wake, “Wh-what are y-”  


“You said you wanted answers, didn’t you?” the man slurred, gripping his wrists in a pair of crushing grips, making his bones pop before moving them behind the brunette. “Hold your wrists together, just like this,” the man said firmly, crossing Malcolm’s wrists behind his back, left over right. Malcom shuddered, “Wh-what are y-” “DID I SAY YOU COULD GODDAMN TALK?!” the man suddenly snapped behind him making him jump, “NOW SHUT UP AND DO WHAT YOU’RE TOLD OR I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU YOU BRAT! I AM OFFERING YOU A CHANCE TO MAKE IT OUT OF THIS FUCKING SHIT ALIVE! NOW DO YOU WANT TO DO AS YOU’RE TOLD OR DO YOU WANT TO FUCKING DIE HERE?!” Malcolm shuddered, remembering the feeling of being crushed all too well, and nodded quietly, “I. . . I want to do what you tell me. . .” He was in no position to fight the man after all. He honestly didn’t think that he could overpower him even without his injuries. . .and with them, well, he was smart enough to know not to further irritate the man behind him. He just hoped that Paul would leave him here, trapped until someone found him. At least then he could get to his phone and call Gil, Ainsley, Jessica, somebody. He flexed his fingers a little, trying to keep them from shaking so much as he held them as instructed, and jumped a little when those hard hands were back, one gripping his hands and holding them firm while another maneuvered what Paul had grabbed from his pocket around them.

In the next instant, a wide band of a thick zip tie was pressing against his wrists and he shivered as it was wrapped too tightly around his skin. “There we go,” Paul huffed, “Just about ready to hit the road.” Malcolm bit his lip, his shaking only getting worse as the man’s words dashed any hope of him being found here. No, no he wanted to stay, not go with him. . . but he also knew he was in no position to make demands. “Now just to tighten it. . . just a little bit mo-there we go,” the man muttered gruffly, making the tie far too snug for comfort. As he removed his hands from Malcolm’s own, he patted the profiler on the shoulder, a bit too hard for comfort, “Go ahead boy, test them out.” Malcolm bit his lip but did as asked, wincing as he jerked his hands around as if to get out of the tie, to find that it didn’t give even a centimeter. “Does it hurt?” Malcolm bit his lip and nodded, a short jerky motion, “Y-yes,” he whispered shakily. 

“Good. Maybe that’ll remind you to remember your place in all this shit,” Paul chuckled, and took a step back, “I know that this isn’t what you wanted when you came after me, boy,” he said, but not in a consoling way at all. Just a matter of fact one. Malcolm sighed, resting his face forward against the bars, having brought most of his weight to his right side, away from his hurting knee, gazing with teary eyes at the hallway beyond. At least he and Paul could agree on that. . . 

“I know why you came here all alone, Malcolm. So that you could know what happened with that girl. . . I was gonna not tell you and just kill your ungrateful ass, honestly, after all you did to your father . . . me and him were close, you know. . . one of my truest, longest friends. . . but maybe you deserve to know. . . once you’ve earned that information. . . Only time will tell, of course. . .” With that he jerked back then forward again, and Malcolm cried out as the sudden hit from the bars behind him sent him crumpling to the floor in the doorway, Paul pushing the bars far enough for Malcolm to finally fall out of the turnstile and onto the dirty floor.

Malcolm’s face pressed against the cold concrete and he shuddered, blinking at it before closing his eyes and hearing the man walk through the turnstile after him, stepping hard on his right leg in passing, making him whimper and pull it away from where the man was walking. Slowly he drew his legs up beneath him, shrinking in on himself on the floor, breathing hard with his injured lungs, his pulse throbbing throughout his brain. He didn’t care how he looked, whether this was a sign of weakness or whatever. The bottom line was he was hurt, with a killer, and unable to find a way out of this situation. All he could do was cower and wait for his chance to escape. . . if there would be one. . . 

He shuddered, rolling his head over, breathing hard through his broken nose at the man’s hard black combat boots that came to stand beside him, the dirty blue jeans leading up from them worn and tattered with a layer of dirt on them. He was about to look up at Paul’s face when one of those boots swung forward and out quicker than he could move in his sore state, and he shut his eyes tight, crying out as he was kicked hard in his side, right in the stomach.

He jumped with the force of the kick, and tugged at his bonds even more, wanting to wrap his hands around his middle instinctively. But the tie wouldn’t budge. So he curled in deeper, trying to make himself less of a target. . . the next kick hit him square in the side of his chest, just under his arm, and with a crack, he knew that if one of his ribs wasn’t fractured before it was most certainly fractured now. Wheezing, groaning as the boot nudged him until he rolled over, the profiler moved onto his back, putting most of his weight on his already sore hands, panting as he gazed up into the sadistic face and dark eyes of the killer above him, seeing Paul for the first time. And tensed, realizing that this wasn’t the first time he’d seen him, and that wasn’t even counting before at the shelter or later outside of the NYPD.

The man above him had a beard, like his father, but it was a slightly different style, set along an angular, cruel face with dark eyes that only held anger and vicious intent. That look alone made Malcolm tense up. After all, Martin had never looked at him like that before. He hadn’t even looked at Ainsley like that when she pissed him off in the interview. . .This look was cold, calculating. One that was carefully crafted to let the victim know there was no escape. Dark eyebrows, peppered with only a few flecks of silvery grey, hung over those dark eyes, some black hair with again flecks of grey scattered throughout it sticking out under the bill of the cap the man wore. The hoodie wouldn’t let Malcolm see the man’s hair, but he did see his beard, two long, light layers of hair running along the side of his face, ending in a thicker short beard right beneath his lips, which was almost fully grey itself, with a matching mustache. 

The man frowned down at the profiler, some age lines on his face but not in a way that was unattractive. If Malcolm had to guess, he was just a few years shy of Martin’s age. . . Malcolm’s eyes flitted to the two long scars running almost completely hidden by the man’s beard down the left side of his face, and he couldn’t help but wonder where those were from. Apart from that the man wore a dark grey hoodie and the dirty jeans from before. He was a bigger man, but not overly buff. Then again, you didn’t really have to be to overpower Malcolm, he thought sadly. He’d never boasted any exuberant amount of raw physical strength. . . He could fight, of course, but not against someone this big or skilled. Not very well, anyway. No matter how many times Malcolm tried to take in the man hovering over him, his eyes always went back to the man’s own. . . and that’s how he knew he’d seen that look before. . . 

~The large campfire crackled in the fire pit dug out of the earth just a few yards from the pond, a safe distance from the two tents set up nearby, one larger one and one slightly smaller. Malcolm glanced over at the old station wagon parked a few yards away from where he sat on an old log that had been there for perhaps years, doubling as a fire pit bench, tugging his thick coat over himself a little more. Near the car, he could see his father leaning over some bags, packing them with supplies for whatever was planned for the day. 

“Here kid,” a gruff voice muttered, and Malcolm whipped his head around, staring at the man who had walked up to him around the pit, a plate of cooked food in his hand from where he’d been cooking it on the other side of the fire. “Th-thank you,” he whispered quietly, staring up at the man. He had pitch black hair and a clean shaven face, wearing a black and red checkered shirt and faded jeans, dark brown work boots donning his feet. And his eyes, they were so devoid of any kindness or emotion. . . 

As Malcolm took the plate of sausage links, eggs, and toast from the man, the first and last a little bit too charred for his liking, the man frowned and turned, walking back to his log on the other side of the fire and flopping down. He had apparently already eaten his breakfast, since he drew out a large hunting knife, unsheathed it, and using a wet stone, began to sharpen it. Malcolm gulped hard and taking the toast, bit off a nervous bite of it, watching the sparks flare off the knife as the man worked on it, his dark eyes watching the fire shimmer along the metal surface. 

“Well, we’re all set for a good day of hunting!” Martin suddenly said, walking up in a sweater and jacket of his own, hands shoved into his pockets. Malcolm darted his eyes back to his father as he sat down beside his son, turning and smiling at Malcolm and his plate, “Eat up son!” he said jovially, clapping Malcolm on the back, “You’re a growing boy, and we have a lot to do today!” “I’m going hunting with you?” Malcolm asked, frowning at his father. ”Well of course m’boy! You have a knife, and you’re old enough!” Martin beamed at his son, “Time to have some quality bonding time with your old man!” “I dunno Mart. . .” the gruff voice of the other man drawled, cutting into their conversation. Martin frowned and turned to the dark haired man, who was frowning not at him but at Malcolm, that cold look making the young boy shift nervously on his seat on the bench.

The man frowned, staring at him with that calculating gaze before shaking his head, flipping the knife up in the air before flawlessly catching the handle, making Malcolm tense with fear that he would cut himself, “Kid’s still too wet behind the ears, too green, for that kind of shit.” Martin frowned, “He’ll be fine. I think he’s ready. . .” with that the father turned to his son and smiled, clapping a firm hand on his back. “Fine. Look. . . we can do whatever you want, Mart. But if your kid gets in my way. . .” he said, a warning, threatening tone in his voice. “I know, I know,” Martin said, waving him off like the threat was nothing. The man just rolled his eyes and turning, stalked off. “Don’t mind him,” Martin sighed, patting Malcolm on the back before rubbing him there, up and down, comforting him, eyes watching the man stalk off, “He’s just ready to get started, that’s all. . .” with that the man turned back to Malcolm and grinned, “Now eat up! We’ve got some hunting to do!” ~

Malcolm’s breath became quicker and shorter as he stared up at the man, the memory of sitting around that campfire with him and his dad flooding back to him in quick flashes that only served to worsen his growing headache. “Y-you, you were on that c-camping tr-trip,” he stuttered, beginning to shake all over. Paul gave him a cold, grim smile, “So, remembering some more, huh? Tell me, you remember this? You little shit?” he tapped the tops of the scars on his face, and Malcolm licked his lips before shaking his head slowly, unable to remember anything more. He had a sickening feeling that he was the cause of that scar, though, with how Paul was talking to him. 

Paul merely shrugged, lowering his hand and beginning to dig around in one pocket, choosing to lean down with his knees on Malcolm’s chest, pushing down on it and making him shut his eyes tight, coughing and jolting beneath him, jerking against the floor, “It’s ok if you don’t, when you do remember I’ll know it,” the man spoke smoothly, and Malcolm squinted, wincing as he saw pulling a large roll of silvery duct tape from his pocket and pulling from it a long strip. Malcolm grit his teeth. Above all else the last thing he wanted to be was gagged.

He was anxious enough as it was, if he couldn’t breathe properly through his nose or mouth he was sure that would only exacerbate the issues he was already having. “P-please, I’ll be quiet, I swear,” he whispered weakly, the pressure on his chest making him almost wheeze out the words. The man frowned, turning his dark eyes to him and lowering the tape to his own thighs. Malcolm smiled a little at him, hoping he could convince him otherwise, “I swear, I won’t do anything to upset you, I won’t give us away, I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to, just. . .” he licked his lips and gazed at the man pleadingly, “Please don’t gag me. I swear I’ll comply. . . I swear it.” 

The man frowned at him for a moment, then a cold smile slid across his face, and Malcolm tensed a little, eyes wary and expecting the worst. As far as he knew, that smile wasn’t a good thing. . . not that his frown was any better. . . “Don’t worry, I know you will,” the man slurred, smiling calmly down at him as his hand moved to his jacket pocket. Malcolm sagged with relief, flopping his head back down on the floor as he waited for the man to put the tape away. “Thank you. I. . .” suddenly something soft and awful tasting was being pushed past his lips, and he shot his eyes open giving muffled protest as he stared at the man with wide eyes as the man’s fingers pushed the wadded up cloth he’d had in his pocket into Malcolm’s mouth. Malcolm shut his eyes tight as the fingers did their work, choking as the large wash cloth was shoved inside of him, the size of it bad enough and the fact that it was dirty with grease or something similar making it even worse. 

He choked and coughed around the cloth, his gag reflex automatically triggered, eyes shut tight as his tongue instinctively tried to push it out. The man didn’t let it complete its task though, and as a dirty palm pressed firmly to his lips to keep it inside, Malcolm watched as Paul picked up the roll of duct tape with one hand, holding the end of it between his thighs as he pulled the roll part up near his mouth as he leaned down, dark eyes focused on the man choking on the cloth on the floor, “Because unlike your father, I’m not gonna give you a damn choice, boy.” 

Taking the end closest to the roll in his yellowed teeth, the man didn’t take his eyes off of the man beneath him as he used his teeth to hold the tape and his hand strength to rip off the section. Malcolm shook his head, heart hammering in his chest. He wasn’t sure how putting the tape on him would make things any worse logically, but emotionally it was so much more. There was a finality to that that terrified him. At least if it was a cloth he could try to work around it. He pleaded wordlessly, begging in his muffled way for the man to reconsider.

Unfortunately for him that didn’t stop Paul from pressing the tape firmly over the man’s thin lips, stretching it across his cheek bones and making him moan as he pressed his hands firmly to his cheeks, making sure that the tape stuck. The man chuckled and rolled his hands around, making Malcolm’s head move as he pressed down hard on the tape, making sure it wasn’t going to move. Malcolm whined as he did so, eyes shut tight against the pain that caused to his swollen face. “And there we go,” the man remarked firmly, sliding the roll of duct tape back into his pocket before standing up, patting his thighs. “Now let’s get you up and get moving. I wasn’t expecting a tagalong today and we’ve already spent enough time here establishing boundaries as it is,” the man muttered, leaning back down and grasping Malcolm’s left arm just under the armpit. 

Malcolm groaned, shutting his eyes tight as he was pulled up, trying to use his bound arms to push himself into a seated position so that he could gather his legs beneath him. He was just drawing them in to do so when Paul growled, “Come on now, I said for you to get up, you sorry shit.” With that the man yanked up harder, but instead of Malcolm gaining his footing, he cried out, unable to get a purchase on the floor and instead of getting up he fell forward, yelling behind the gag in his mouth and throat as his already injured knee slammed into the cold concrete. He shut his eyes tight, whimpering against the pain, trying to remain quiet apart from the initial reactions. “You sorry piece of shit,” Paul growled, and Malcolm whimpered again as he bowed his head, cold tears streaking from his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t even be able to point out that it was Paul’s fault he was in such a condition even without the gag in place. . . he knew it wouldn’t have ended well, after all. Suddenly, a loud sound filled the void of the hallway, coming very insistently from the front right pocket of Malcolm’s pants. Malcolm’s eyes widened. His cell.

Paul frowned, leaning down and grabbing Malcolm’s chin firmly in that same harsh grip he’d used in the turnstile, jerking the man’s head up and frowning hard and unforgiving in his eyes. Malcolm’s own widened in fear at that look, something he was certain to never get used to. There was so much anger there, all directed at him. “Where’s your fucking phone, boy?” the man remarked coldly. Malcolm knew there was no point lying to the man and bowed his head in the direction of his right thigh, where the slight bulge of the smartphone could be seen. The man smirked, leaning forward with his other hand and digging into the pocket, his cold eyes focused on the bound man, “Good boy. Now let me answer your phone while you hop on that whole standing up deal.” Whipping the phone out of the pocket he stood up, pressing the green call button as Malcolm grunted and tried to regather his legs beneath him. Once he did that he grunted and whimpering, put his right foot flat on the floor, that knee bent so that it was up close to his chin, before slowly lifting up, leaning primarily on that leg breathing heavily around the gag as he forced his sore body up and standing, blinking tiredly at Paul as the man smirked at him, hitting speaker, having not so much as spoken to the person calling.

Glancing down at the upturned screen that the man held between them, Malcolm felt like lead had been dropped into his stomach. . . Gil. . .”Malcolm? Malcolm are you fucking there?” Gil’s voice sailed over the line and Malcolm could practically weep with sadness and helplessness, closing his eyes at the worried tone in the man’s voice. Opening his eyes slowly, he gazed into Paul’s sadistic black eyes. Seeing the promise there to hurt them both: the “ungrateful” kid of the man he’d viewed as a mentor. . . and the cop who had put that mentor away and who had made sure they threw away the key. 

Paul smirked, eyes glittering dangerously as they watched Malcolm’s helpless state, and lifted the phone closer to his lips, “Yeah, your boy’s here, Detective. But he can’t come to the phone right now. . . well, I guess he could, but he wouldn’t be much in the way of conversation. . . not anymore.” “Who the hell is this?! What have you done with Bright?!” Gil’s voice demanded, the concern Malcolm had heard there before now edging over into what bordered on panic. Paul chuckled and reaching out, ran some fingers through Malcolm’s by now bloody and sweaty locks, quaffing his hair to the side, not missing the way his victim winced at each stroke of his fingers, “Now calm down Detective, how can you expect to do your job when you’re all frazzled like that? This is Paul, the killer you’ve been looking for? Just wanted to answer the phone for young Malcolm here because ya see, me and him have done some talking, and as it turns out, he won’t be returning to the station any time soon. I guess you could say we’re going to be getting to know each other for a little while.” the man sneered the last gripping Malcolm’s hair and jerking it back, making Malcolm yelp, eyes shut tight. 

“Did ya hear that?” Paul chuckled darkly, “Kid’s excited already. Ready to get to know one of his dear old dad’s buddies.” “I swear if you fucking kill him. . .” Gil snarled, and Malcolm’s eyes opened at the defensive protectiveness in the man’s voice, widened even with the tears beading up in them. It made his heart both lift and sink to hear Gil’s protectiveness. He literally had no idea he meant so much to the man. . .

Paul chuckled and shook his head, “If I wanted to kill him I would have already crushed his pretty little fucking skull in already and left it for you to see, Arroyo. Nah, I’ve got other plans for Malcolm here. . . Gonna teach him all the shit that his dad never got to. It WAS what MArtin wanted anyway, and while I’m not the best fucking teacher in the world, you can tell Whitley not to worry. . . I’ll make sure it sticks.” he sneered, his eyes flashing dangerously and making Malcolm’s own widen in anxiety, his heart hammering in his bruised rib cage, fear flooding his irises and making Paul’s smile only grow more, as he tilted his head, resuming his stroking of the kid’s hair, “Maybe I’ll let you see him when I’m done, maybe not. . .” “I swear I’m going to fucking find you and kill you,” Gil growled, “I’ll make you wish you never fucking touched him. . .” 

“On the contrary,” the man chuckled, flopping his arm down to his side and sliding it behind his back, and pulled out an 82 mm, making Malcolm’s eyes widen. Paul chuckled, that sadistic gleam flooding his eyes as he lifted the gun up and moved the tip of it towards Malcolm’s forehead. Malcolm whimpered and tried to move away from it, only to have Paul growl and take a step forward, slinging the hand with the phone in it around his neck holding Malcolm still with his arm so that all he could do was whimper and twitch as the muzzle tip cradled his forehead, the cold look in Paul’s own eyes telling him not to move another muscle, “If you fucking try to find us, Detective Arroyo, it won’t be me getting killed, but little Malcolm here. . .you see. . .” 

Malcolm shuddered, whimpering as tears raced hot down his swollen cheeks covered in his own dried blood as the gun tip pressed against his forehead then slowly slid down the angles of his face opposite from where Paul was standing against him, able to smell the alcohol once again, able to feel that hot, sadistic breath on his face as the man murmured his dark promise to the cop on teh phone, “Let’s put it this way,” the man slurred, “If I even see you, or if you follow us a bit too closely and I realize it by watching the news, I’m going to blow his Profiler brain all over the place with one fucking pull of the trigger, and leave him for you to find, just so you can see that pretty picture. . . the one you will have created by coming after us.” For a moment there was silence on the line, and all that could be heard was heavy breathing from Malcolm as the gun rested just in the hollow in his bottom jaw, right beneath his chin.

“You’re bluffing,” Gil finally replied, and although there was a certain amount of anger and threat in his voice, there was also that hesitation, and worry in his tone, “Martin Whitly is your mentor, Malcolm is his son. . . Whitly would never let you-” “Whitly’s not calling the shots anymore though,” Paul slurred, “I am, and if I decide you’re getting too close and little Malcolm here is too much trouble to keep around, I can assure you, I’ll be sending a bullet STRAIGHT through that smart little head of his. . . Or maybe you’ve pissed me off enough that I’ll just end him right now. . .I can do it, you know, isn’t that right, Malcolm?” with that he whipped his arm out and under Malcolm’s armpit, using that new position to jerk the phone around to be right beside Malcolm’s head. The move was so fast it was over in an instant. In the next, Paul pulled the trigger. . . the bang went off and Malcolm jumped, nearly falling over if it hadn’t been for Paul’s arm, yelping around the gag, eyes shut tight before he realized it had been a blank. . . 

“Malcolm?! Malcolm are you there?” Gil gasped, full on panic in his voice. Malcolm only bowed his head, heaving deep, struggling breaths around the gag, sobbing brokenly and shaking uncontrollably, his heart feeling like it was beating so hard it would bust through his damaged rib cage and out of his chest. This was all too much, all too much. He didn’t want to appear so weak, most of the time he fought not to, but with the pain he’d been in since entering that turnstile and all the stress he’d been under lately, he just couldn’t help it. Paul sneered at the pathetic display of the man crying beside him and lifted the phone back to his face, sliding the gun up those angled cheeks and pressing it into the middle of the man’s injured forehead and pushing in a little, “Malcolm. Adults are talking.” the man slurred mockingly.

Malcolm went rigid and squint his eyes shut, shuddering as he felt the gun pressing against him, but managed to get his breathing back under control, but just barely. And listened to Paul and Gil as the killer chose to pick up the conversation again, “Yeah, he’s still here. How long that remains the case depends on you and him though, Detective. So I suggest you stop looking for my ass, if you want Malcolm here to keep breathing. . .” “Malcolm, it’ll be ok,” Gil said, apparently ignoring Paul, trying to reassure the frightened, hurt man. Malcolm only sucked in a deep breath, opening his worry filled eyes and blinking at the phone. Wishing he could believe Gil more. 

As if sensing that he wasn’t believing him, Gil pressed forward, “Malcolm, we’ll figure this out. . .It’ll be fine, just do what he wants and it’ll b-” “Goodbye now,” Paul slurred, and Malcolm watched with his teary eyes as the man opened his hand and let the phone fall to the concrete without hanging up. As it hit the stone, a crack raced all over the face of it, and he could hear Gil shouting out in alarm, trying to spout off more reassurances. . . “I think we’ve had enough of that old man for now, don’t you?” Paul murmured, and lowering the gun, pulled the trigger. . . 

Malcolm jumped as in an explosion of sparks a real bullet shot through the phone screen, wedging into the concrete as the phone shattered around it, parts flying from it as it fizzled out, his heart sinking as he gazed at the technological corpse lying on the cold stone. He closed his eyes, shuddering as he bowed his head, beginning to tremble. “Don’t make the next one go through that head of yours, Malcolm. Your dad won’t like it if I have to kill you, but I will. Without missing a beat or losing sleep,” Paul hissed, sliding his gun back into his pocket before turning and walking around Malcolm, frowning hard into his eyes, “Understood?” Malcolm nodded slowly, still feeling his tears race down. His eyes watched every move the killer made though. He had to, if he wanted to stay alive through this. . . 

Paul smirked coldly at the man before him, “Good boy. Now turn around. . .” Malcolm grit his teeth around the cloth in his mouth but did as requested, shaking all over and fighting the panic at turning his back on the man who had nearly killed him earlier. Suddenly two hands were on him, one on his wrists, holding them in a firm grip, the other on his neck, holding it so tightly it was like he wanted to choke him. Which, Malcolm acknowledged, with all the open hate he’d felt from Paul, maybe the man did. . . “Now march, I’ll let you know when to turn,” The man muttered coldly.

Malcolm sucked in a deep breath and began to hobble forward, as quickly as he could go with his bum knee, further and further away from the phone, and Gil, the one person who he had deep down always depended on to save him when he’d gone too far with their cases. . . it was like a debt he felt the cop owed him but also much more than that. . . like the man was this father figure who stepped into his life when his dad could no longer be depended upon. And now Gil was being taken away from him too, and replaced by someone who was hardly a father figure at all. At least not a good one. . . all because he had to chase Paul down. . . He vaguely recalled Gil expressing concern that the case was too personal for him on their way back to the station from the junkyard, the older man having stated that it could cause him to act irrationally, that it could endanger him. . . he could only hope now that he made it to the other side of this shit show that had just started so he could tell Gil that he was right.

Glancing up he saw that same moth from before, tapping against that damn light bulb. Suddenly he thought of a moth he’d seen flying towards one of the electric bug zappers that are so famous on country porches while working on the case. . . the bug had gotten closer and closer, seemingly unaware of the humming electricity in the light’s cage, and then when it had gotten too close. . . bam, it had been over. The moth burned against the zapper and fell to the porch. He remembered watching it, momentarily thinking of how stupid the bug had been to have not seen the obvious threat. He couldn’t believe it at the time. Now he thought he could, if just a little bit more than before. . .“Right,” Paul muttered suddenly, and Malcolm grunted, making the right turn down a new hallway. All he could do now was try to make it out of this alive. That was all a moth could do after all, follow the light, bang against it, and hope to survive.


	2. "He's Got Bright"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In one simple phone call Gil's world feels like it comes crashing down around him as one of his worst fears is realized:A sadistic sociopathic killer has kidnapped Malcolm Bright, formerly Whitly. The race against the clock to find his profiler and former savior begins!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Miss me? ;) Finally the wait is over! Here's the reaction to the last chapter we have all been waiting for! Gil's! Seriously, hope you all enjoy!

Gil stared at the wall of awards before him, the deep breath held tight in his lungs as his hand clenched around the phone in his hand, the gunshot reverberating like a morbid echo in his mind. Had Paul just killed- It was then that the sadistic man’s voice sailed over the line, “Yeah, he’s still here. How long that remains the case depends on you and him though, Detective. So I suggest you stop looking for my ass, if you want Malcolm here to keep breathing. . .” 

The smugness dripped from his tone and Gil swallowed hard, closing his eyes and sending up a silent thanks to whatever god was out there as he ran a hand over his face. He was beyond grateful that Malcolm hadn’t just been killed, but the smug tone in Paul Lazar’s voice only served to reassure him of the fact that the bastard was the one in control of the current situation, not Gil or Malcolm themselves. Still, he had to reassure Malcolm as best he could, no matter how bad the situation might seem. The kid needed to have his wits about him now more than ever before, and that wouldn’t happen if he was in a panic. 

“Malcolm, it’ll be ok,” Gil said quickly, since Paul might end the call at any second, running his trembling hand through his hair as he paced his office. He’d done that more times than he’d like to admit since he’d first called upon Malcolm to help the NYPD. Now he walked along that path of frustration again, looking at nothing in particular, his true focus being on the small technological device in his sweaty right hand.

He heard Malcolm’s muffled breathing on the other end of the line and clung to that as proof that Malcolm WAS alive and that he WOULD be alive when they caught up with him and Paul. Because they WOULD catch up to them, and they WOULD find him alive. . . they just HAD to. Because Gil wouldn’t be able to live with himself if they didn’t find him that way. 

He owed Malcolm his life, for Christ’s sake. As his heart raced and he remembered that fateful night, he became even more determined that he would find Malcolm alive. He HAD to, to make it up to the kid. He just needed Malcolm to keep his head together until he got there, he told himself. 

Holding the phone even tighter, he spoke firmly into it, wanting to make sure Malcolm heard every word, “Malcolm, we’ll figure this out. . ." 'I've just got to find a way to hunt Paul down without him realizing how close I am.' "It’ll be fine, just do what he wants and it’ll b-” Before he could say another word, Paul’s cold voice cut him off, “Goodbye now." Gil tensed, the words slurred callously in his ear moments before a loud bang flooded through his ear piece.

After instinctively jerking away from his phone the man desperately pressed it back to his cheek. “Malcolm?! MALCOLM! JUST STAY CALM AND IT’LL BE OK!” he shouted into the phone, knowing all too well it had been dropped, his heart hammering in his chest. Hell, the man didn't even know if the kid could hear him but he still had to try to get the message through to him. After all, these could be the last words he would say to the kid before the hunt was on. 

Then it would be a race against the clock-not to mention a trial for his patience- to get Bright out of this shit alive. He just needed Malcolm as patient and calm as possible, working Paul as much as he safely could from his end while Gil's team tried to work Paul OUT on the other. “WE’LL FIGURE THIS OUT, WE’LL COME FOR YOU, IT’LL ALL BE OK! I SWEAR IT WILL, WE-” 

At that moment his phone seemed to explode in his ear, the loud shot making him jerk the phone away from his head, staring at the screen as his phone dropped the call, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. 

“Boss? Boss are you alright?” Dani’s voice suddenly broke through the void, pulling his gaze away from the device. He turned, staring at the woman who had just poked her head in his office, frowning at him, “Was that Bright? Is he coming back now?” the woman remarked, all business, frowning at him, "We just found some more bodies in the junkyard. . ." 'Of course they have.'

Gil opened his mouth but no words seemed to come out of it, anything he was going to say getting caught in his throat behind the huge lump that had formed there. With the line going dead, the severity of the situation had fully set in. Now he didn’t just see Bright as he had been. . . he saw him as one of the crushed bodies in that trash compactor. The kid who'd saved him and tried to make things right as a profiler turned into a mangled pile of flesh, blood, and bone, slid out on Dr. Edrisa's French named Italian pizza peel so the world could see Paul's handiwork.

All because of Gil’s stupidity, because Gil hadn’t been there for Bright when he needed him. . . His hand jerked and the phone fell loosely from his trembling fingers as the look of mild concern on Dani’s face shifted, her eyebrows knitting together tighter and jaw setting a little firmer in concern. She took a quick step further into the office, almost fully closing the door behind her as she gazed into Gil’s wide, worried eyes, “Gil? Gil, who was that? What’s going on?” 

Gil didn’t answer her, he couldn’t. But he could move. And that was what Bright needed right now, he told himself. if Paul was moving Gil needed to be moving, either physically or mentally, to try to find a way to capture the murderous bastard without letting him know until it was too late for Paul to slip away again. . . Or kill Bright. Hell whenever Paul wasn't moving Arroyo had to keep going. The killer already had a headstart after all. 

With that the team leader practically jumped forward as he pushed past her and out of the office. Whipping around, Dani stared at the back of Gil's head, walking quickly just to keep up with his quick pace, “Gil?! Gil, what’s happening? Where’s Bright?” 

Finally Gil found his voice, talking loudly to drown out his heart rate, heading straight into the main meeting room of the Police Department, “WE NEED TO ACT FAST! I WANT A CAMERA FEED OF THE FRONT OF THIS BUILDING FOR THE PAST FORTY MINUTES, AND OF THE SURROUNDING BLOCKS WHILE WE'RE AT IT! WE NEED TO FOCUS ON BRIGHT’S MOVEMENTS DURING THAT TIME! WERE WE ABLE TO PINPOINT A LOCATION FOR THE CALL PAUL LAZAR MADE TO BRIGHT BEFORE?! DO WE HAVE ANY IDEA WHICH DELIVERY COMPANY DROPPED OFF THAT DAMN PACKAGE YET?! I NEEDED THESE ANSWERS 10 MINUTES AGO!” 

Gil sucked in a deep breath as he approached the meeting room. JT was inside, putting up new pictures in the "Victims" portion of the expo board. Gil could already see a picture of Bright added to group in his head. Closing his eyes the man shook his head. 'He won't end up like them. He can't.'

Dani was still staring at Gil as she walked behind him. The man seemed like a horrible emotional mix of angry and worried. And in her gut she had a feeling she knew the reason why. That reason liked to hand out lollipops at crime scenes, solved murders with an intrigue unmatched by anyone Gil had ever called on as a consult, and slept with bed restraints just a few feet away from his parakeet's cage. Dani grit her teeth, sincerely hoping her assumption was wrong. For both Gil and the case's sake.

“He used a disposable cell, it bounced between towers but we’re fairly certain he couldn’t have been far away. His connection with Bright may mean he wants to stay close to the investigation both mentally and physically. . .” Dani began, “We asked the front desk what delivery company dropped off the package for Malcolm earlier, but they claimed that the man wasn’t wearing a uniform of any kind, just a jacket and hoodie . . . I assume that he had to have been working with Paul or that he was him. . .” 

"OF COURSE HE WAS PAUL! AND THAT MEANS HE WAS MORE THAN JUST CLOSE! HE WAS FUCKING IN THE PRECINCT!" 'We coulda had him! Right then and there! Fuck!' Gil mentally cursed his luck, or lack thereof. He had a sickening feeling that that was gonna be how most of the investigation and resulting hunt for the bastard would go. . . He shook his head with a jerk, taking a deep breath before continuing. 

"I WANT FOOTAGE OF THE FRONT DESK! SEE IF WE CAN GET A CLEAR SHOT OF HIS FACE! I WANT FOOTAGE FROM AROUND THAT TIME OUTSIDE THE FRONT OF THE BUILDING TOO! I WANT TO KNOW WHERE HE WENT AFTER DROPPING IT OFF!” Gil shouted, turning his head and making Dani pause slightly at the intense look burning in those dark eyes. They stood just outside of the meeting room now. JT was putting tape on the back of yet another picture. That made ten in the junkyard alone, Gil realized. 'Damn what kind of sick fuck is this guy?' 

Turning he felt his adrenaline pumping even more. “WELL?! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING AROUND FOR?! THE MAN’S A SADISTIC FRIEND OF THE SURGEON!” With that he pushed the door to the meeting room open and marched inside, still looking over his shoulder at Dani, “WE NEED TO FIND HIM AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE!”

“But Gil, what is going on?” Dani whispered, staring at him, worry and concern in her eyes as she closed the door behind her. She’d never seen that look in his eyes before, never seen him so panicked. It made her worry even more about the man before her. Gil stared at her then turned, staring at JT too as the man stood at one end of the table, a photograph in his hands, eyes wide and watching Gil, clearly having never seen this side of him either.

Gil shook his head and began to pace again. The minute he said it he spoke the truth into reality. Pausing he turned to the two and instead saw little Malcolm. Brave little Malcolm standing before him while they arrested his dad, fear, guilt, and uncertainty in the boy's troubled eyes. 

“HE’S. . .” Gil turned and shook his head, gazing outside, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. He sniffed and gulped hard, blinking them angrily away, “He’s. . .” “What’s he done? Where’s Bright? What’s going on Gil?” JT said firmly, putting the picture down and moving forward as he placed a firm hand on Gil's shoulder, "Where's Malcolm?" 

'You have NO idea how much I want to be able to know the answer to that.' Gil thought furiously and shut his eyes tight, finally able to push past that lump in his throat even as it threatened to strangle him, "HE’S TAKEN BRIGHT!” he shouted out so hard he was surprised the windows didn’t rattle in their frames. From the looks on JT and Dani’s faces, they appeared to be feeling the same way. 

Gil only looked at them both for a second before collapsing in the chair behind him, the strength that he’d had to stand seeming to leave him with the confession as the guilt and fear of the situation fully settled in on him. 

He was so exhausted suddenly that he was just grateful he'd stopped pacing with a chair behind him. Otherwise he may very well have fallen on the floor. Leaning forward, his face pressed into his two hands, elbows pressing into the table. He sighed a long rattling breath, his heart still hammering away as he shook in the seat. The phone call kept running over and over in his head: the words, the threat in Paul's voice , and the whimpering and fear he'd heard from Malcolm. 

All of this rolled over and over in his head as he sat there. And all of it amounted to one thing. . . "He's got him. . . He's fucking got him. . ." He whispered, a sharp contrast to the yelling he'd done earlier that now had left his throat dry and scratchy as two comforting hands rested on his shoulders, "Paul Lazar has harmed, subdued, and kidnapped Malcolm Bright."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what did you all think? Since the chapter is mainly from Gil's perspective, some of his inner monologue may seem repetitive (although I did try to minimize that). The main reason for that is that I am trying to show what would be going on in his head as he comes to terms with exactly what has happened and is happening to Malcolm. For those who may have wanted a longer chapter, my apologies. This just seemed like a good pausing point. And don't worry! More should be on the way soon!


	3. A Father Remembered, A Son In Distress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Malcolm and Paul make their way out of the maze of service hallways, a memory comes to Malcolm. Of a loving father and a deadly killer on a stormy winter night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Yes, I know it has been a long time, but working as an assistant retail manager during the holidays as well as participating in family celebrations during said holidays has kept me so busy that any time I would normally spend on writing has been split up or eaten up. That being said, I still apologize for the lateness of this chapter! Honestly it could have been posted last December, but even though I had the rough draft written I kept wanting to tweak it and make it just right for all of you! So please, enjoy the following chapter! I can only hope it is worth the wait! Also. . . Happy New Year!  
btw, the following symbol signifies a memory or flashback: ~

~“Malcolm, we’ll figure this out. . ."~ Malcolm blinked down at the concrete floor as they made their way down the winding halls, Gil’s last words to him reverberating in his brain. He was now merely breathing hard around the cloth and tape as opposed to crying behind it, having somewhat collected himself shortly after they’d begun their trek. He was no good to himself or Gil panicked, after all, and he had therefore decided that he had to remain in control of himself as much as possible if he was ever going to try to take control of the situation away from Paul. . . at least, that’s what he had told himself.

~“Just do what he wants and it’ll be fine. . .”~ There was Gil’s voice again, and Malcolm grit his teeth, digging deeper into the awful tasting cloth that began at his incisors and slid over his tongue to where the tip of it prodded into his throat. As he moved his teeth tighter together, his lips moved as well. He winced, the duct tape across his face biting at them as they tried to flex beneath it, pulling at the sensitive skin there.

Malcolm sighed, and as Paul muttered for him to turn left, he did so. He wasn’t an idiot, although how he’d ended up in this situation might be used as evidence against that claim. He knew he needed to play along with what Paul wanted for now. At least until he could get the upper hand with the man or, better yet, get away from the psychopathic killer altogether. He knew Gil was right about laying low and waiting for a moment like that to present itself. So, on the occasions when Paul would direct him to turn down a certain hallway, Malcolm would turn without objection. Biding his time.

He winced, the man’s pace quickening with each step, having to move as quickly as his now swollen and tight knee would allow, the bulging skin around the kneecap pressing painfully against his pants. He swallowed hard around the dirty cloth in his mouth, eyes on the floor since the man’s hand that had been on his neck had slid up into his hair and proceeded to push down on his head to tilt it down shortly after they’d started moving. He breathed hard through his busted nose as he continued forward, Paul’s hot breath brushing against the back of his neck as he guided him through the labyrinth of hallways. “Right,” Paul muttered, and Malcolm bowed his head further, nodding compliantly as his body turned in the appropriate direction. 

Malcolm had originally tried to mentally record which turns they made in an attempt to have some sense of direction in the event that he might be able to break free and escape the concrete labyrinth. He’d figured that surely Paul wouldn’t chase him down out into a public street, allowing him to make it back to safety. After all, he’d reasoned, that would draw too much attention to the man as well. But with the man’s firm grip on his wrists and head becoming tighter by the second and the ever growing series of turns he had Malcolm take became more confusing, the hope of escape from this place and the urge to try to keep up with which turns they made diminished. Still, he hoped that if he waited patiently enough Paul would let his guard down and make a mistake. He’d run like hell if he needed to down every single hallway if that meant Paul would be away from him. They couldn’t be the only ones in here, right? He’d surely find SOMEONE to help him. . .

“Such a quiet boy,” Paul suddenly slurred in his ear, leaning closer to the profiler and upping his pace a little. Malcolm grunted softly, staggering a bit on his hurt knee as he was forced to move faster. The faster pace jarred his knee with each step but still he kept moving, even as the tears peaked at the corners of his eyes, that hand in his hair rubbing roughly at his bloody strands and scalp. “What ya got going on in that head of yours?” the man purred, “Planning to get away from me, boy?” 

Malcolm grit his teeth around the cloth as he thought over his answer. Of course he was planning to do that. . . eventually . . . he had a feeling that this trip with Paul, if it went the way the man wanted it to, would only end in his death. Still, if he could convince Paul that he had no capacity to think about plans of escape at that moment, maybe that would get the man to ease up on his grip. Shaking his head as much as he could beneath the hard hand that held onto it, he sucked in a shuddering breath through his nose, wincing a little as the man growled appreciatively, tightening his grip on the profiler’s head and wrists instead of loosening it.

“Good boy, I’d hate for someone else to pay for your stupid mistakes,” the man slurred, and Malcolm twitched as his alcohol laced breath brushed against his cheek, “Even if you wouldn’t encounter anyone I’d have to kill because of you in some stupid escape attempt, I could always go after someone else after catching up with you. Perhaps someone who would help make you understand the rules a bit better. . . I’m sure torturing your mother or dear sister would teach you your position as a victim in all of this very nicely.” Malcolm’s breath hitched at the thought of either Jessica or Ainsley being hurt, and at that point he misstepped. Grunting, he shut his eyes tightly, staggering a little, mentally cursing himself. He should have been ready for Paul to say something like that. . . maybe he wasn’t as focused as he’d like to think. . .

“Watch where you put your damn feet, boy,” the man warned, a soft growl lingering on the edges of his voice. Malcolm shuddered and nodded in understanding as the man’s hand tightened around his wrists, and attempted to flex his hands in an attempt to loosen the man’s hold or at least relieve some of the tightness of the plastic holding them together. A tightening of the man’s hand against them in warning made him stop that attempt though, and he sighed, continuing to hobble along, being more careful about his steps. He doubted Paul would be very kind to him should he fall. 

“You know, I knew you were going to be a troublesome little shit the moment I laid eyes on you,” Paul continued, turning the hand on Malcolm’s head so that he faced the left. Malcolm blinked, frowning behind the gag as he headed down that path. Thinking back to the memory Paul had already dragged out of the recesses of his subconscious, assuming that was the moment the man was talking about. He remembered sitting by the water. . . at the campsite. . . he shivered, remembering the disdain the man’s eyes had held for him even then. Back when Malcolm was harmless, when he was nothing but a child. . .

“Tell me, do you remember that night? The weather had become a fucking blizzard here in the city and I got stuck passing through. I needed a place to crash, and your dad let me stay with you and your family that night,” the man said, and Malcolm frowned, eyebrows creasing as he tilted his head a little towards the man, confused. The man growled, “Eyes forward, head down, boy. . .” with that he gripped Malcolm’s head harder and turned it sharply back into position. Malcolm grunted and bowed his head obediently, but his mind was whirring. Had he in fact met Paul before the camp, which had obviously happened in a Fall month? The man had entered his life some time in the Winter months before that? Why couldn’t he remember? 

Seemingly pleased that Malcolm had lowered his head again, the man tapped his fingers against his scalp in a rhythmic pattern as he recalled the memory he was touching on, “Don’t you remember? They said it was the worst storm that Winter. . . I remember you and your family had made a snowman in your yard. . . I could still just barely see it with all the extra snow that had fallen and had piled up around it.By the time I got there, most of the city was without power. But your mother’s family. . . well, normal limitations have never really applied to her, have they? That’s what Martin used to always say. . . Still, for all of his disdain for her , I have to admit Whitley made a smart decision, deciding to shack up with her. Good financial support, a respectable family, a pretty face . . . not to mention, she was a good socialite who had enough clout to hide his more abnormal qualities from general society. And all he had to do was stick his cock in that dumb rich bitch’s cunt every few months after he would take her out somewhere nice so that they could play the happy couple . . .” the man hummed at that, as if he wished he had had that sort of situation.

They had walked a few more seconds in silence before the man shrugged, “Of course, he’s always been better with people than me, so that set up really wouldn’t have worked for me. . .yes, his plan was definitely crafted perfectly by him for him. . . the only real fuck up he made was having YOU,” the man finished coldly, squeezing Malcolm’s head extra hard, making him wince around the gag. Somehow he had known Paul would get around to insulting Malcolm in his monologue, given how much he seemed to despise him, so it was no real surprise that he would say that now. 

Still, Malcolm kept wondering what night it was that the man was talking about, since it was when they had supposedly met for the first time. Maybe it could give him a clue as to how to regain control in the current situation, if he could remember. He racked his brain for big blizzards he remembered from when he was growing up, and a few came to mind. . . but he hadn’t ever made a snowman, at least, he didn’t think he had . . . Wait!. . .He thought he remembered something. . . something about his dad and him making a snowman together when he was four. . . yes, he thought he could remember his dad picking him up by his stomach to put the eyes, mouth, and nose on. That was right, Martin had been determined to make one with three huge snowballs, not just two! That’s why Malcolm wasn’t tall enough to put the face on it by himself! And then, he had had to use a button from his dad’s jacket to make the nose, since the help hadn’t come that day due to the weather and his mother didn’t know where the carrots were kept in the kitchen. . . yes, that was what happened. . . he remembered that the button had been green. . .

“It created a weakness for him, having you” the man scoffed, “I knew that the minute he opened the door that night. . . seeing you in his arms, seeking refuge from a man you didn’t deserve it from . . . who you would later betray . . I knew right then that you and your sister were dragging him down. . . preventing him from being what he could be. . . what was her name, anyway? Your sister? Wasn’t it Ainsley?” Malcolm grit his teeth around the rag, not wanting to let Paul know anything about his family that the man didn’t already know for certain. But he also assumed the man knew he was right with or without confirmation. So not wanting to irritate the killer, Malcolm nodded, a quick, jerky motion due to the pressure on his head, his fingers flexing beneath the iron grip on them as they tightened.

Paul sighed as if disappointed, “He should have never had you. I realized that that night. Until then I knew he had had you but I didn’t really think of the implications of what that meant for him. . . I just figured it was a mistake he could sweep under the rug if need be. But then, seeing him standing there with you . . . somehow I KNEW that you were too MUCH of a fucking mistake, one he COULD sweep under the rug, but one that he WOULDN’T want to. That was his mistake, boy. All along. Wasn’t it? Caring about a brat like you so fucking much.” Malcolm sucked in a shuddering breath, trying to focus on his steps and the flashes of memory that came to mind with each step they took.

He saw a fire, saw his dad with two mugs of hot cocoa. He groaned softly, closing his eyes as the memory began to come to him. Sometimes when they were buried so deep, it gave him a headache to remember them. But he wanted to, and so he pushed forward. He hated Paul, and wanted to get away from him. . . but the man had already helped him remember one vital memory. And if he was stuck with the man and a new memory was coming, he’d welcome it happily, even if it did give him a minor headache.

“Tell me, do you remember that night? Being all cold and hugging your dear daddy? Clinging to him and literally dragging him down the way you’ve always done with his ambitions?” Paul murmured softly. Malcolm grit his teeth around the cloth in his mouth. Then, suddenly, his chest seized up and a chill he knew he didn’t really feel raced up his spine. He trembled as the memory began to set in. He remembered waking up super cold one night beneath the sheets of his twin bed, shortly after being tucked in by Martin at 8 pm as was their usual routine. He remembered shuddering, breathing a puff cloud of air past his lips as he’d gazed at the mobile of the solar system hanging above his bed. Even though he was 4 and a half, the Whitley parents had already had him work with tutors, teaching him Latin along with other topics, including the lay out of the solar system. They had been determined that their son would not just be one of the smarter students when he went to school. According to both his mother and father, he had no choice except to be the best and brightest. 

That night no Latin or facts had run through his mind though, since his room had been beyond freezing at the time, far colder than when he’d gone to bed that night in his white and blue striped pajamas. Looking out the window he’d seen that most of the street lights had been shut off, the city of New York nothing but a silhouette of dark shapes around him. Those facts had terrified him and made him feel more alone than ever before. He remembered calling out twice for someone to come to him and to help him, hands shivering as they’d tried to pull his sheets tighter around him. When no one had responded he had slowly eased out of bed, grabbing and pulling on his dark blue robe, still feeling as cold as ice as he slipped on his slippers and made his way out into the dark mansion, trying to find someone himself sincethey had decided to not come and find him, trying light switches that wouldn’t work as he sought out his family, calling their names.

He remembered being so worried, only able to hear the creak of the floorboards beneath his padded feet as he made his way through the halls. Not even Ainsley, who was only half a year old at the time, had cried out in the darkness. The feeling of abandonment had welled up in his chest as he’d turned a corner, tears rolling fat down his cheeks as he’d called out for his father, his heart beating rapidly in his ears. . . and then, just when he had thought he was truly all alone. . . for forever. . .

~Malcolm jumped, staring like a deer caught in the headlights as the yellow glow of the flashlight suddenly illuminated his entire face. Whimpering, the boy moved his small hands up to shield his eyes as his father lowered the light, leaning forward and grasping his shoulder firmly in a comforting grip. He sobbed brokenly, grasping the warm hand tightly in his two freezing ones, bowing his head and sobbing. He felt nothing but gratefulness that someone had finally found him.

“Malcolm my boy! I’ve been looking all over for you! I went to your room but you weren’t there anymore!” Martin’s voice boomed, and Malcolm’s eyes darted up, staring into the face of his father as he choked out sob after sob. Martin was still wearing the red and black plaid sweater vest over a red flannel shirt, the same things he’d worn at dinner and while he’d read a book to Malcolm in the den before bedtime. 

Malcolm had continued to sob quietly as the man frowned, tilting his head, “You look frightened, my boy, when there’s nothing to be afraid of,” Martin said, pointing out the obvious in his blunt, analytical way before kneeling down, becoming eye level with Malcolm and resting the flashlight on the floor so that it still illuminated the area between them. Malcolm shuddered, his breath coming in short, shaky gasps as his chest heaved, unable to stop crying as the man reached out, cupping his cheek in a comforting warmth as the boy still held his other hand in a vice like grip. “What’s wrong, son?” Martin whispered in a warmer voice compared to the analytical tone he’d used with his son earlier. It invited Malcolm in, and in that moment the panicked boy needed that safety his father offered. 

Sobbing, closing his eyes tightly, the boy lunged forward, wrapping his arms firmly around Martin’s neck, his body trembling as he sobbed into his dad’s shoulder, “C-cold. . . I. . .w-woke up c-c-cold,” Malcolm managed, shivering as he buried his face into the soft sweater, his tears staining the material, “C-couldn’t hear any-anyone. . . Called. . . Called f-f-for help. . . D-didn’t know wh-where you w-were. . .C-couldn’t f-f-find. . . Th-thought I w-w-was. . . all. . .” he was going to try to say “alone”, but couldn’t, and began hiccuping and coughing as he cried into his father’s shoulder. 

Martin smiled calmly, as it was apparent the boy couldn’t finish a single sentence, and leaned forward, resting his head on the boy’s shoulder and rocking his child back and forth as his arms wrapped around Malcolm’s back, hands moving up and down, gently rubbing and calming him the way only Martin seemed to be able to do when he got so worked up, “There there, my boy, it’ll all be alright. I would never abandon you here. I’ll always be here for you. Always. I would never abandon my little Malcolm.” Malcolm sucked in a shuddering breath, his nails digging into Martin’s back, but his body marginally relaxed with each word, and he began to only sniffle instead of sob. 

“There we are, that’s my big, smart boy,” Martin encouraged, “Shhhh, now, enough with the tears. The power just went out on us due to the storm, that’s all. That’s why you’re so cold. Don’t worry though, we have a back-up generator that has already started to warm the house, and in the meantime, I’ve made a nice big fire we can snuggle up in front of in the living room. Your mother and Ainsley are already there, waiting on us. When we get there maybe we could drink some of my famous double chocolate hot cocoa and curl up on the couch? How does that sound, my boy?” He murmured in his son’s ear, one hand moving up and patting Malcolm’s hair in a manner that always seemed to help calm him. Pulling away, Malcolm sniffled, rubbing at his runny nose with his hand, managing a weak smile for Martin. He’d go anywhere with Martin if it meant his dad would be staying close to him. 

Nodding, he whispered softly, “Th-that sounds really good.” Martin smiled a large smile at his son that warmed the boy up immediately and made Malcolm smile even more. Malcolm always liked when Martin smiled at him, when he let him know he was proud of him. “Good. Now come on. . .” the man murmured. Shifting the boy to his side a little, keeping one arm wrapped firmly around and under the boy who wrapped his arms tighter around the man’s neck as he leaned forward and grabbed the flashlight, the doctor grinned, “Let’s get you to that living room so we can warm you up, ok? Let’s go see your mother and sister!” Tightening his arms around Martin’s neck, Malcolm let his father lift him up with one arm, holding him aloft and against his warm body as Malcolm wrapped his legs around his dad almost immediately to keep from falling. “O-okay,” Malcolm managed, Martin holding him close to try to warm him up. Martin smiled and gave him a light kiss on the forehead, his beard fuzzy and brushing against Malcolm’s closed eyes, “That’s my boy. I’ll always be here, Malcolm. Always.” 

The two were halfway to the living room, crossing the entry hall of the house, when there was a hard and quick knocking on the door. Malcolm jumped slightly at the abrupt sound, gazing worriedly at the door. Shushing his son gently, Martin turned to the front door of the house, heading over even as Jessica demanded from the living room to know why anyone would be knocking at “this ungodly hour”. Martin shouted back that he had a friend stopping by before chuckling softly, shaking his head and rubbing at Malcolm’s cheek with his beard, the boy nestled right up against his neck. The chuckling made Malcolm blink tiredly up at his father as he walked, hugging his arms around the man a little more as Martin shifted the flashlight to be held in the hand holding him, loosening his grip on the boy just a little to do so. The man was careful to not loosen his grip enough to drop his son but rather just enough to allow for movement.

“Seems like your mother’s already dealing with this blizzard in her usual way, huh son?” he murmured in his deep, rumbling voice. Malcolm only blinked in reply at his dad, not particularly liking the way his father talked about his mother, but accepting it all the same. He looked up to Martin -his dad was his hero who had saved him from the frightening dark and cold, who would always save him when he was scared- no matter how close Malcolm was to his mother, as Martin put it he was always Daddy’s Little Boy. So no matter how much he didn’t like the way Martin talked about his mom, he would never object the man’s comments. Never. He didn’t want to upset his dad at any cost.

“Please don’t be a drinker, Malcolm,” Martin murmured softly in his ear, turning and kissing Malcolm softly on the forehead, “Don’t be like her. You have way too much potential to WASTE your life with something like that. Promise me, boy.” Malcolm could tell by his tone that the man was serious. “I promise,” Malcolm whispered, blinking at the expanse of neck before his eyes, wrapping his arms a little tighter around the man. With that the father reached the door, and quickly undid the three locks there. Turning his head, Martin smiled at Malcolm, the pride in his eyes warming the boy even more and making Malcolm smile weakly right back, pressing his cheek against the man’s sweater. He loved it when his father smiled at him like that. . . He loved knowing he made him proud. 

“That’s my boy,” Martin said, leaning closer just as he swung the door open and pressing a firm kiss again to his forehead. “Well now isn’t that just a beautiful family picture,” a gruff voice mocked from the other side. Malcolm turned his head, blinking with wide eyes at the man on the other side, standing in a slightly tattered beige jacket, the heavy coat’s hood hanging low over his angular face. Under the hood Malcolm saw two dark eyes peering out at them locking on him with a cold stare that chilled him to the bone all over again. He gulped, licking his lips and pulling himself closer to Martin, seeking his comfort instinctively. The man outside frowned harder at the pair as the boy did so, hands shoved in his pockets, his tattered pants covered in snow from having to walk from his car up to the front door, snow flecks landing on his shoulders. As he stood in the cold.

Martin chuckled, turning his head away from Malcolm who continued to stare at the man on the other side of the door, “Even though you are my honored guest, I’ll have to ask you not to mock us, John. Having a child as obedient as young Malcolm here is is a joy and a pleasure, and not something to be scoffed at. He is my future, my lasting legacy I will leave on the world, among other things. Isn’t that right, son?” Martin glanced at Malcolm who lifted his head up, blinking at him before darting his eyes back to “John”, then back again to his father, “Y-yes sir,” he whispered softly, glancing nervously at the other man who frowned, setting his jaw firmly. “Never met an obedient child,” the man said, but bowed his head, frowning at Malcolm as if he didn’t truly believe his next words, “But there is always a first time for everything. Hello . . . Malcolm,” he said, as if adding the boy’s name on the end was an afterthought, forcing the name through his lips in an effort to apparently be more polite. 

For a moment Malcolm could only stare at the man, as if paralyzed by that dark look in his eyes. Even though the man seemed to concede with Martin, there was no change in his face. If anything he seemed disgusted the more he looked at the father holding his son. “Don’t be rude son,” Martin chided gently, shifting Malcolm a little, wrapping both arms around hte boy to keep holding him, “Someone just said hello to you.” The tinge of slight disappointment in the man’s voice got Malcolm’s lips moving and he lifted his head up, blinking at the stranger warily, “H-Hello. . . Mr. John.” 

“Good boy,” Martin praised, pulling Malcolm even firmer against him as he took a step back, letting the other man over the threshold. As “John” stepped inside, wind came with him, having been mostly blocked by his bulky form, and Malcolm shivered, turning his head and burying it against his father’s collarbone, shutting his eyes tightly. He didn’t turn away from Martin’s sweater as he walked both his son and the guest to the living room until Jessica could be heard saying, “Martin, who on earth is th- Oh, Malcolm! Oh my god!” 

Malcolm turned away from his father as his mother walked up, staring wide eyed at her son, wearing her silk pajamas and heavy burgundy robe. “The boy woke up cold and scared, I found him though and have kept him warm, don’t worry,” Martin said gruffly, clearly reluctant to hand Malcolm over. But as Jessica hooked her arms beneath her child’s armpits and pulled a little, the man released his hold on the boy gradually as Malcolm did the same, letting his mother hoist him onto the red velvet couch in the room and cover him in a thick quilt. 

Pulling the quilt close, his small fingers locked onto the material, Malcolm settled on the couch as Jessica sat to his right, pulling him tight against her and holding him firmly there as his cheek rested against her clothed breast, rubbing his body through the blanket to keep him warm as Martin walked over to the small bar area of the room where a hot pot was sitting on a warming plate, quickly pouring his son the afore mentioned cocoa. Malcolm’s eyes didn’t stop watching Martin’s movements, even as he was jostled a little by his mother’s efforts to warm him. As John came to stand in the middle of the room, blocking Malcolm’s sight line of Martin, the boy glanced first at the huge fire in the grate and then at the bassinet within which his blonde haired baby sister lay snuggled up in countless blankets, his mother’s foot propped up and rocking it gently, the babe inside fast asleep and warm. Taking in the room about himself to avoid looking at the man.

“So,” Jessica said, apparently satisfied that the child whose cheek was pressed against her bosom was safe, “You are an old. . . colleague of Martin’s are you? You look around the right age. . .” she said, directing her attention to “John”. “Something like that,” the man muttered, dropping his hood, his hair a dark black and cut short, before he sat heavily in a green velvet armchair to the right of the couch. Malcolm glanced at him as he did so before turning to watch his father as he turned and made his way to the couch with two cups of cocoa. As Martin sat down beside him Malcolm shifted, gritting his teeth as he moved away from his mother, who attempted to hold onto him for a moment before seeming to give up as the boy persisted until he was nestled into the curve of his father’s side, grasping the mug offered, the top of the dark brown liquid within dotted with at least twenty mini marshmallows, just the way he liked it. 

He didn’t dislike his mother, not really. But he never felt quite safe with her. . . not like with Martin, anyway. Martin chuckled warmly, laying a hand on his side and pulling him close. Jessica huffed, as if Martin had wronged her in some way, and stood up, marching out of the room and muttering something about needing more wine. “You are free to get some cocoa as well, John,” Martin remarked a few moments after she left, “And you will have to forgive my wife I’m afraid. She can be a bit. . . emotional, but she does serve her purposes where it counts.” “She seems to be the only one here to do that,” John remarked in a cool, detached voice, his eyes once more on the boy curved into his father’s side, pulling out a long slender cigarette and sticking it between yellowed teeth before bringing out a lighter. 

“Y-you’re not supposed t-” Malcolm piped up, licking the slight chocolate froth that had formed on his lips away, lifting his head. He was cut off as a sharp, dark look was cast his way from the other man, and he whimpered softly, pressing more against Martin who chuckled, rubbing his son’s arm and side firmly, “I think we can make an exception this time, my boy. Just drink your cocoa.” Malcolm nodded wordlessly, lifting the mug obediently and closing his eyes, gulping a big sip of the sweet drink down and feeling it warm his body as his father addressed John, “And John, you know I value you as a colleague, but I will have to ask you to not be so cold towards Malcolm. I won’t have you worrying him. He’s already been through enough tonight. And as far as him serving a purpose, he’s already well on his way to go above and beyond what I expect from him. Children just require a little patience. They have to grow first, remember that,” the man murmured, a tinge of something darker on the edge of his voice as he addressed the darker haired man, his tone almost like a warning as he held his son closer. 

Malcolm groaned at the action before snuggling closer to his father, enjoying the closeness it afforded him, drinking in the sweetness of the cocoa to the sound of his father’s heartbeat as his head lay on the man’s chest, breathing softly. In that moment he was no longer worried about the dark haired man, confident that Martin had everything under control. ‘Everything’s ok,’ he thought. Just like things always had been when he’d trust his father. Martin chuckled warmly, stroking Malcolm’s hair gently, running his fingers through the beautiful brunette strands, “Such a good sweet boy.”~

Malcolm blinked furiously to try to hide the two tears that pricked at the edges of his vision due to the memory. It had been years since he’d remembered that night, and how safe he’d felt with his father by the fire. It was ironic how much he’d trusted Martin, even when he’d violated Malcolm’s safety by letting Paul, or perhaps John was his true name, in the house. Now he realized just how Martin had made the situation even more dangerous. Not that he thought Martin would have let the man hurt Malcolm, but still it had been a 4 year old boy and a 6 month old baby left alone in a room with two serial killers. . .

“I can still see you clinging to him in my mind, like the LEECH you were and still are to him,” Paul growled softly, upping his pace. Malcolm grunted, fighting to keep up with the new pace as the man’s grip on his head and wrists tightened, “You always dragged him down, but he always put up with you, believing you were going to be some great prodigy of his. He never realized what a threat you were. But I saw through you, saw your faults in your morals. I didn’t say it that night. . . I really couldn’t, with your mom and you present, but I told him later that he either needed to get a head start on taking care of your morals, or taking care of YOU, if he didn’t want to lose big in the long run. He should have listened to me about you, but still he didn’t. And look what happened? His sweet, polite little boy that he was SO PROUD of and SO SURE about turned him in the second he got a chance. I wonder how PROUD of you he was then. I bet he wished he had drowned you on that camping trip. But he won’t have to worry about you anymore. . .I’ll take care of what he couldn’t, one way or another.”

Malcolm shuddered, unable to hide the tears that raced down his cheeks as he continued forcing his way forward. His teeth clenched around the cloth in his mouth and he shut his eyes, shaking his head a little underneath the hard hand of the killer. That wasn’t how it was at all, he thought fiercely. Paul might know things about his father that Malcolm didn’t, but he had no IDEA what kind of feelings he had had for Martin Whitley when he’d made that phone call.

He had always viewed his father as a hero, and even after knowing that Martin had done horrible, terrible things, it had still been the hardest thing in the world to make that 911 call. He remembered standing there, watching Martin welcome Gil inside and offer to make the guy some tea. As Gil had moved inside, Martin had locked eyes with Malcolm standing silently on the stairs and had shrugged, shaking his head, surprise and confusion on his face, clearly trying to figure out just what was going on. 

Malcolm remembered feeling lost in that moment regarding what to do. He’d initially called the police because in the end what he’d always ben taught in school had won out in his mind, leaving him with only one option: hurting people was wrong, so since his father hurt people he needed to tell someone and that someone obviously had to be the police. But even as Gil had stood beside him, smiling down at him reassuringly, Malcolm had quivered, a part of him telling him to stay out of it, to let Martin handle things like he always did. That part of him just wanted to run and hug his dad, to cry and beg for him to forgive him for making that call, to let Martin take care of the situation like he always did. That part of him had wrestled with the morals that had made him make that call for what had felt like eternity. All the memories of his father stood up against those morals, demanding that he support his dad no matter what.

But of course in the end Malcolm’s morals had won out, and he’d said the words that had damned his father to imprisonment to Gil, the weight of them making his heart feel heavy in his chest. He wasn’t sure what a broken heart felt like, but as they’d hauled Martin away, as his mother had glowered at Martin and held Ainsley close, Malcolm had felt a part of him die as his dad, his hero, was taken away from him. He had stood there, lost and heartbroken, knowing that the man had done terrible things that he deserved to be punished for but mourning the loss of the father that had always held him so close, who had always cared so much for him. It was a pain no one, not Gil, not Jessica, not Ainsley, not even his therapist had been able to fully understand. How dare Paul even insinuate that he knew so much about Malcolm and his father, when those he held close still knew so little?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was definitely more emotional than I had expected it to be. The flashback was a final addition that ended up splitting the original chapter into two chapters due to length, so hopefully that chapter will be posted soon as well!!! I hope you all enjoyed it, please leave a comment below to let me know what you thought!


	4. Where to Start?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the cryptic phone call with Paul Lazar, Lt. Arroyo and his team try to figure out a plan for finding Malcolm and Paul, fighting their own emotions and dealing with the monstrous mother bear Jessica Whitly in the process. (Btw I personally love it when Jessica Whitly goes "Mother bear" mode in the show, showing her true emotions outside of her "perfect" facade)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to everyone still with the story! I tried to keep this update a bit quicker than the last one, and hope that you all enjoy it!

Dani stared at her boss as he ran his hands over his face, a deep, rattling sigh escaping Gil’s lips as he leaned forward in the chair, the rest of his energy leaving him as he did so. Lowering his hands and gazing at the tabletop before him, the man sighed, making Dani’s own concern build. It was so easy sometimes with the way Gil carried himself and the way he approached problems to forget how old he was. But then there were moments like this one where his age truly showed in the worry lines of his forehead and the age lines that seemed to become more prominent on his face, both formed out of years of being on the force.

Shaking his head, Gil gazed at the grains of wood in the table top, wishing they might have all of his answers. Wishing they could tell him how to find Paul Lazar and get Malcolm somewhere where he was safe again. But the damn table remained as silent as always. “What do you mean Paul Lazar has got Bright?” JT said with a frown, “How the hell could that even happen?” Closing his eyes, the lieutenant hung his head, running a shaking hand through the silver and black strands. 

“He’s fucking got him,” the man repeated, shaking his head, the hand in his hair sliding down to rub at his temple, his other hand flopping uselessly to lay against the arm rest of the chair. As he sat there, he could see Bright sitting on those stairs beside him, his hands trembling after that phone call from Lazar. Malcolm’s eyes had had a lot of emotions in them in that moment, and now Gil could recall them as clear as day. Anger, fear, remorse, confusion, determination, all moving together in Malcolm’s eyes to the point where it seemed his eyes were no longer looking at Gil but rather swirling in a cacophony of emotion that threatened to swallow Bright or anyone talking to him whole. Gil wanted to think that he’d walked away from Bright for the kid’s own good, but if he was really honest with himself, he had needed a break from Malcolm’s raw emotions, which had risen to the surface so prominently in the past day that they were practically tangible, hanging in the air around Bright like a musky mist. The lieutenant had needed a breather, a gasp of fresh air from that dark smothering cloud, and in getting that breather, he’d left Malcolm out in the open, ripe for the taking.

“I left him alone for 15 minutes. . . 15 goddamn minutes. . . I thought he needed some fucking time to himself, thought we needed some time away from him, with how much this case has been getting to him. I thought it would do all of us some good, with how worked up he got from that damn phone call. . . I thought. . . I thought he needed some time to breathe for a minute. . . that we all did. . .” he shook his head and rested his forehead fully in the hand on his temple, his next words nothing more than trembling whispers, “And that’s how Paul fucking got him. It’s my damn fault. . . All my damn fault.”

Dani bit her lip and began to rub his shoulder beneath her fingers, “It’s not your fault, Gil. You know it isn’t. You had no way of knowing that Malcolm could be taken. You were just trying to help him and help all of us,” she whispered encouragingly. She understood the part where Gil had felt like they all needed a break from one another. Honestly, that thought had crossed her mind more than once that day. On a regular case, Bright could be a bit too much, either with his eagerness to solve said case or with his other eccentricities. This case however had turned that up another level, or maybe a couple of levels, if she was honest. She’d thought many times about asking Gil if it was smart to have Malcolm even on the case, but she had a feeling Gil had already said that to Bright. And if Gil hadn’t been able to convince Malcolm, what could she say to change anything?

“How can you even know Bright’s been taken?” JT said slowly, trying to catch up with what was happening, “Couldn’t Bright have just walked down the block or something to get some air? Hell, who’s to say he won’t walk back in here with doughnuts for everyone like nothing has even happened? Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing he’s ever done. . .” “I know because I tried calling Malcolm when he wasn’t outside and hadn’t shown back up here at the station after a few minutes,” Gil whispered shakily, “And then Paul Lazar picked up the damn phone. . . From what I could tell Malcolm was hurt and gagged. Paul said. . .” he shuddered and closed his eyes, remembering the man’s deadly tone and threatening words, “He said that if he realized we were following them he’d kill Malcolm immediately and then. . . then I heard a gunshot and heard Malcolm just barely cry out. . . Apparently he hadn’t shot Malcolm, but he proved he had a gun and would be true to his word. Then he dropped the phone, and the line went dead.”

JT shook his head, “Unfuckingbelievable. Halfway through the case and Bright gets abducted. . . kid shoulda been home, and with police surveillance. . . now he’s god knows where. . .” Gil nodded his head, sighing as he agreed with the man. It would have been proper procedure, of course. They all knew that. “I should have known better, I should have either convinced him to stay at home or I should have stuck with him out there. . . instead I just left him there, ripe for the taking.” he bit out the last words. “No one could have predicted that Paul would take Bright out in the open like that, though,” Dani muttered, hating how much Gil was beating himself up over this, “No one would have ever expected it. . .” 

“But I’m still wondering how Paul fucking did it in the first place,” JT muttered, shaking his head, rubbing the back of it as he walked over and glanced down out of the window and to the right, where the front steps of the precinct sat empty apart from a few policemen milling around, the cars of the street beyond moving at a quick, normal pace. “How the hell would he have been able to? He couldn’t just walk up, threaten Bright, and make off with him. That kind of thing would have been too public. There would have been fucking officers all around, ready to stop him,” the detective continued.

Gil sighed, shaking his head and turning the seat around, and frowned at the evidence board. The lieutenant stared at the countless photos of crushed bodies and at all the faces of Paul’s victims, “He’s been doing this for years, maybe Paul doesn’t even need to use force anymore. Maybe he said something to Bright that made him follow him. . . That could just look like a conversation on the street to everybody else. And he had just rattled Bright with that phone call. He knew Bright was in an emotional state. . . and apparently he knew Martin Whitly, too. . . so who knows how much he knew about Malcolm even before this case?He may have said something to trigger Bright, to get him off of his game. Then all he’d have to do would be to lead him to a secluded place, and when Bright was finally alone with him. . .” He winced, remembering how scared Malcolm had sounded on the phone, and how deadly Paul’s tone had been. It had been the tone of a coldblooded killer, and in his experience, Gil knew that that meant that when it came to what he would put Malcolm through, Paul’s possibilities were virtually endless.

He sighed, shaking his head, running a hand through his hair again. They needed to find Bright and they needed to find him FAST. The sound of the second hand of the clock in the conference room ticking by only seemed louder and more affirmative of that fact. He didn’t think that Paul would kill Malcolm right off, but there were other terrible things the man could do. If he could find Paul quickly, maybe he wouldn’t have much time to hurt Malcolm like that. But if he moved too quickly, if he screwed something up. . . Paul’s threat came back to his mind and Gil shuddered, closing his eyes. They had to be smart about this, had to plan out a way to trap the killer. If they didn’t, then they could very well end up in a stand off that might end with Malcolm’s brains flying through the air. If they were going to do this, they had to be smart, and it had to involve practically zero guess work. But that took time, during which Paul could get halfway across New York City-or worse, leave the city-with Malcolm at his mercy. 

Shaking his head, trying to shift that glaring fact away from the front of his mind, Gil blinked. “Ok, first things first, we need to figure out where they are and what Paul is using to transport Bright,” the man remarked firmly, standing up. Sitting down wallowing in self pity wasn’t getting Bright any safer, after all. He had to pull himself together, quickly, and just hope that Malcolm was going to be able to keep Paul as much under control as possible on his end. . . or at least, not piss the guy off to the point of killing Malcolm. . .

Dani nodded firmly,“I’ll go get started on finding that footage, sir. We’ll figure out which direction Malcolm and Paul went and go from there. We’ll find them, Gil. I’m sure of it,” she whispered the last words in a quiet soothing voice, touching Gil’s shoulder one more time and giving it a squeeze for just a second before turning and walking quickly out of the room. Gil watched her go, sighing as the door closed, and turned to JT, “Have we got any more of an idea regarding Paul Lazar’s other aliases? The man has to have more of a history than simply being born in Maryland, graduating from high school there, and owning a junkyard. He has to at least have a driver’s license or some sort of picture ID!” 

The other man sighed and shook his head, “No, we don’t have that quite yet. . . if we just had a description of what he looks like. . . maybe we could look for driver’s license pictures that matched it? That would give us a start,” JT said, frowning at the board. ‘And the bad thing is that that’s not much of a start at all,’ the detective thought bitterly, looking at the victims portion of the white board. It went far beyond pissing him off, the thought that this coldblooded killer had escaped detection for so long. He’d killed so many people, and may very well have killed many more, either outside of their jurisdiction or with different methods to trip up the police in the past, and they were nowhere close to identifying him or closing in on him. And now the one person that might be able to help them find him had gotten himself kidnapped by the bastard. 

JT knew that Malcolm hadn’t intentionally gotten kidnapped, of course. But the kid was too much of a wild card for his liking, and had gotten way too close emotionally to the case. Bright was brilliant-even JT had come to realize that over the cases they’d worked together-but he was sporadic, and in some cases that was a bad thing. This instance was one of those times. Sighing, gazing over the victims once more, the man turned to Gil. He had no time to think about Bright getting himself captured. Right now they needed to find Paul Lazar, not just for Malcolm, but also to help the missing Father Leo and any other future victims of the serial killer. He did have ONE idea as to finding out what Paul Lazar looked like. If that idea worked out well they might be able to find even more information regarding the bastard. But he wasn’t sure Gil would go for it. . . still, it was worth a shot.

Sucking in a deep breath, JT let it out, making Gil turn his head and blink at him, “What is it JT?” JT grit his teeth and decided to go for it, “The things is, I’ve been thinking about it and there are two people who might know what Paul looks like: Ryan Davis. . . who has been hysterical, suicidal, and unable to provide any helpful information to the police trying to question him at the hospital. . .and Martin Whitly. . . who is currently in Solitary Confinement.” At just the mention of Whitly’s name Gil crossed his arms, his jaw setting firmly and his eyes hardening. “We will NOT talk to Martin Whitly about this,” Gil said firmly, shaking his head and tightening his arms, “The man is a narcissistic sociopath who hid 23 murders from his wife, family, and society as a whole for years. Lying is as natural to him as breathing.” JT frowned. He’d known that Gil wouldn’t want to talk to Whitly, but if he was their only chance. . . 

“You and I both know that Bright has visited or spoken to Whitly multiple times as he’s worked cases with us. . .” he began. “What Malcolm does on his own time is his own business,” Gil remarked coldly, and walked over to the window and looking down at the bustling street, the very thought of asking Martin for help leaving a sour taste in his mouth. All he could smell was the chamomile in the tea Martin had made for him to drink that night. The damn scent still made his stomach turn. No, he would NOT ask Martin for help.He still hated the fact that Malcolm visited his father and asked for “help”. Martin wasn’t healthy or safe for Malcolm, and if Gil could somehow keep Bright from visiting the psychotic killer, he would. After all, there was more than one way to solve a case, and many of the alternatives didn’t involve consulting with a manipulative serial killer. But if he tried too hard to keep Malcolm from his father, he knew that that would potentially only make Malcolm want to see him more. So he hadn’t talked with Malcolm about it, not really. He didn’t want Malcolm to see his father of course, but he didn’t want to lose Bright as a friend in the process.

“You and I both know that most of the times after Malcolm. . . talked with his father, he would come back with new insights about the case we were working on at the time!” JT persisted, “I’m just saying, Martin was willing to help Malcolm then, he SHOULD be willing to help Malcolm NOW.” “I will NOT TALK to Martin Whitly about this!” Gil snapped, so loudly JT could only stare at him silently. Gil sucked in a deep breath, closing his eyes, “We will find Malcolm without Martin Whitly’s help, JT. With APPROVED methods of police investigation.”

“I’m all for using agreed upon methods to find Paul, but the victim pool has been racking up, Gil, and we just added Malcolm and Father Leo to it. . . Don’t you think Martin would be a quicker way to-” JT tried again. “If he didn’t tell Malcolm anything about Paul, I don’t see why he would provide us with any useful information. He could very well lead us on a wild goose chase that would only waste our time and put Malcolm’s life in jeopardy,” Gil cut him off, turning and frowning at JT. JT sighed, slumping his shoulders, turning and leaning back against the table, crossing his arms and frowning at the evidence board again, “You’re right, of course. Just trying to figure out a way to find him. . .well, find THEM now, I guess. . .” the man muttered with a shrug.

Gil sighed and walked back over from the window, turning and leaning back against the table in a similar fashion, frowning at the board, “I know you are, and I’m already trying to get an identification through more . . . conventional means. . .I have Dani checking the recent footage of right out front of the precinct and the surrounding blocks, to see how Malcolm was abducted from our front steps and where he and Paul went from there. I also have her checking the video feed of the front desk around the time the package was delivered. Hopefully we’ll figure out where he took Bright, along with how he’s planning on transporting him, and what he looks like, so we can search driver’s license databases for him. Like you already suggested.” JT shook his head, frowning, “I still don’t understand how he got Bright,” the man remarked, “He’s usually smarter than this.” “Well that phone call did rattle him up,” Gil whispered, turning and glancing at the phone that was still sitting on the table, “This whole case has. . .” “You’re talking about when Lazar mentioned the girl in the box?” JT remarked, frowning at Gil, “I saw how Bright got worked up over that, we all saw it. . . what the hell was that all about Gil?” 

Gil sighed and bowed his head, nodding and gazing at the dull carpet of the room as he turned his head away from the phone, “Malcolm claimed when he initially got his father arrested that the night before he had made his way down to the basement of their house to his father’s private rooms. One of those rooms included the office where the phone was that Paul called Bright on the other night. Anyway, Martin Whitly spent some time talking to him and getting him a mug of cocoa until Malcolm got sleepy enough to head back upstairs and go to bed. He was going back upstairs and he saw a trunk in a smaller storage room of the basement. Apparently he heard some sounds coming from it, like someone was trying to get out of it, and he walked over to it, calling to his father and asking what was in the trunk. Since his dad was still in the other room, Malcolm decided to open the trunk. According to him there was a girl in there, naked except for her underwear . . . and hurt.” JT’s eyes widened and he stared at Gil, “So what happened?” 

Gil frowned and turned to JT, “He called 911 the next evening reporting a disturbance, and I got dispatched to the house. Martin acted like he had no idea who had made the call or why they would do it, of course, and everything seemed calm and at peace so I figured it was just some kid’s idea of a prank. Then Martin made me some tea with a paralytic in it, intent on killing me, and Malcolm told me about it before he could. We arrested Martin, and Malcolm told us about the girl he’d found in the trunk the night before. So we searched the basement for her. The problem was that we never found the girl, just some very detailed journals, pictures, and other evidence regarding Martin’s crimes and victims. A psychiatrist concluded that Malcolm had found the pictures and fabricated the girl, that he had imagined that he found her based on what he saw in the photos. In spite of that, Malcolm continued to think she was real for a long, LONG time. But the other detectives working the case, his therapist, his mom, myself, and even his father kept telling him that she was just a figment of his imagination. But, if his recent night terrors are in fact repressed memories. . .” Gil sucked in a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair yet again, locking eyes with JT. 

The other man frowned and nodded, able to understand the rest without Gil saying it,“Then the girl was real and Paul apparently knows what happened to her. Do you really think he could have convinced Malcolm to come with him at the steps based on that though? To walk off with him to a place where they could talk about the girl?” Gil sighed and shook his head, closing his eyes, “I’d hope not, but Bright. . . I’m worried he’s gotten desperate about this girl. I don’t want to think Paul could have gotten him so easily, but he was desperate when he was younger for someone to believe him so that we could find her. . .so, so desperate.” Gil sighed, closing his eyes and hanging his head. Not for the first time in the past few minutes, he wanted to rush out there and find Paul Lazar, save Malcolm, and then beat the killer to a bloody pulp. It was driving him nuts not to be able to do that. ~ “If I even see you, or if you follow us a bit too closely and I realize it by watching the news, I’m going to blow his Profiler brain all over the place with one fucking pull of the trigger, and leave him for you to find, just so you can see that pretty picture. . . the one you will have created by coming after us.”~ Gil grit his teeth and bringing his hand up to his chin, clenched his fingers tightly together, the nails biting into his palm as he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, blinking as his eyes moved over the evidence board. 

JT sighed, the tension riding off of Gil in waves. He knew the old man and Bright were close, even if he didn’t know the details of how close the two were. He knew it was driving the man crazy just standing there while Bright was being taken to god knew where. “Well, what if, while Dani is looking for that footage, we just roadblock the major ways out of the city? After all, he wouldn’t keep him here, right? Not with police still looking for bodies in the junkyard?” JT offered, “And hell, he might still try to get him out without using the main roads or he might even have another spot in the city to take Malcolm to, but that would at least narrow down the search radius even if that’s true, right?” he finished hopefully.

Gil sighed, shaking his head, “It could still be too risky. He’s said he’ll kill Bright if we put too much pressure on him. I don’t want to risk that.” “But we can’t just let him stroll out of New York either! Not just for Malcolm’s sake, but for everyone else’s! We’ve got him here, we could create a trap for him while we’ve still got time,” JT snapped. “But Bright. . .” Gil said, shaking his head and turning, frowning out the window from where he stood at the table. Somewhere out there, Malcolm was trying to figure out how to survive against a killer. If Gil and the others put up roadblocks, all of that trying could be for nothing. 

“Gil, we can’t help that Bright went with him alone! He should have called for back-up instead! We can’t help that he didn’t! We can’t be walking on tiptoes now and holding back when the killer is so damn close! You KNOW Bright wouldn’t want that! You know he’d want us to do what we could to stop the killing!” JT snapped in frustration, glaring at Gil.

Gil frowned hard at JT. He could see where JT was coming from as clear as day. In fact a part of him wanted to go ahead and do what JT had just said. But he still wasn’t willing to make that sacrifice. He knew he’d never be able to live with himself if Bright died because of something he’d decided to do without really thinking it through. After all, Malcolm was much more than just some profiler to him. In many ways, with how Gil had been there as Malcolm had grown up, Malcolm had become like a son to him. As he opened his mouth to explain that to JT, the door burst open. The two men turned, staring as Dani, looking out of breath but relatively pleased with herself, rushed in, a grey laptop grasped tightly in her hands, “We have a facial on Paul Lazar! And footage from when Bright left the station!” she declared triumphantly.

At that point anything JT and Gil were about to say was pushed aside as she sat down firmly in a seat on JT’s other side. Setting the laptop on the tabletop, the woman opened it quickly as the other two men walked over to lean over her shoulders, eyes focused on the screen. “Ok, here’s what we think is a picture of Paul’s face, taken from the security footage of the front desk,” she breathed, pointing at a still-frame picture open and to the side of what appeared to be paused camera footage of the front of the police station. Gil tore his eyes from where he could see himself sitting beside Malcolm in the paused footage, the other man hunched forward slightly as he spoke to Gil. In just the paused still frame, he could see the tension in Malcolm’s shoulders, like he had been ready to explode with anxiety. It created a lump of grief in his stomach, seeing how nervous he had left the profiler, out in the open and vulnerable. . .Instead of focusing on that the man focused on the snapshot of Paul, frowning at the man’s face.

Even though the camera didn’t have the best angle to get Paul’s face in the shot with, he could tell it was a sharp, angular face. The man’s hair was mostly obscured by the baseball cap and hoodie he wore, the bill of the cap hiding the man’s eyes from the camera. He could see what appeared to be a scar down the man’s face, and he knew that could be a distinguishing feature that could help them in their investigation and search. The man had a short beard and mustache as well, but the scar was what drew him in. Narrowing his eyes, he leaned closer to the camera, frowning and trying to make out those eyes. . . “Do we have a picture of his eyes?” he whispered.

Dani nodded and clicked on a tab at the bottom of the screen, “This is the best one we have of them. . .” The picture that popped up looked similar to the first, but this time Paul had tilted his head up a bit further as he’d addressed the front counter receptionist. Gil could tell from the picture that the scar ran right over his eye, and both eyes appeared to be dark. Maybe black or a dark brown. . .

“JT, tell them to send these pictures to everyone on the force. I want them looking for him. Send it to the homeless shelters of the city as well. All of them. . . Have it run through the database as well. . .” he muttered. JT frowned and nodded, and Dani wordlessly took out a thumb drive and stuck it into the laptop, quickly saving both pictures to it. The detective couldn’t deny that he would be happy to have SOMETHING to do that might help catch the psycho killer. “What do you want me to tell the force and the shelter workers to do if they see him?” “Tell them only to report seeing him. If they think they’ve found him, they are not to engage,” Gil said firmly, shooting the man a look that said that he was dead serious, “I don’t want to put anyone in jeopardy until we have a legit plan for catching this guy.” “Yes Sir,” JT nodded firmly, saluting the man as he grabbed the thumb drive from Dani and walked quickly out of the room.

Turning to Dani after the man left, Gil sighed, “Paul threatened to kill Bright if he felt too much heat from us. Until we figure more out about him and where he’s going with him, I want to play it safe. JT’s obviously not too thrilled.” Dani smiled weakly at him, “I understand. You both want to find Paul, but you don’t want Malcolm or Father Leo to get hurt. Hopefully, what we have here. . .” she nodded to the camera footage still pulled up on the laptop, “Will help us do all of that.” Gil smiled weakly and nodded, “Right.” Turning back to the laptop and sitting down in the chair beside Dani, he leaned forward, eyes glued to the screen as a sign for her to show him what she’d found.

Dani smiled and flipping her hair over her shoulder and out of her face, leaned forward, “Ok, so here’s where you left Malcolm at the front of the station. . .” Gil grit his teeth at the term “left”, knowing that if he had been there Malcolm may still be there with them. . . ‘I’m trying to figure out how to find you, Macolm, just hold on a little longer,’ he thought silently, watching as he said his final words to Bright once Dani clicked on the play button on the screen. He watched as he said his words to Bright, and Bright assured him that he would be in shortly before Gil turned and headed inside. A few seconds later Bright lifted his head, and his shoulders noticeably tensed a little more before he stood up. He appeared to be looking at something across the street. 

“What’s he staring at?” Gil whispered, leaning closer to the screen as Malcolm leaned back on one leg and stood still apart from turning his head a little, clearly focused on figuring something out about whatever he was seeing across the street. “I’ve got that footage too,” Dani whispered, and by her tone Gil knew that Bright wasn’t looking at a “whatever”, but rather a “whoever”. . . and he had a feeling he knew who Bright was looking at. . . she popped up another window to be right beside the previous one. It was another camera feed from a lens set up on the roof of the precinct, focused on the sidewalk across the street. And there, directly in Malcolm’s line of sight, was the same man who had delivered the package, leaning against a tree holding a piece of paper of some kind, staring at the profiler. Just from the way he stood, Gil could see the danger in the man. That predatory stance was one you never got used to, no matter how many times you saw it.

In the next instant Dani hit a button that made both screens spring to life and play their footage, and what the two of them saw made Gil swallow hard. Paul dropped the paper to the ground and turning, began to head in the direction that would be to the right of the station. Bright turned and looked back at the police station one more time, clearly contemplating going back inside. . . ‘Damn it, he should have just done that!’ Gil thought in frustration, gritting his teeth together. Then just as soon as he’d turned as if to go inside, Bright seemed to make up his mind and turning, he headed quickly across the street after Paul and out of the frame.

“What happened after that? He headed to the right of the station, what happened after that?” Gil whispered, staring at the screens as the segment of footage restarted automatically. He saw both screens playing it out all over again, and seeing Paul watching him as he talked to Bright and left him on the front steps, knowing he had been watching them both. . . it was like the laptop was glaring at Gil and jabbing an accusing finger at him, letting him know it was all his fault. If he hadn’t left Bright outside, Bright wouldn’t have followed Paul. It was as simple as that. Gritting his teeth the lieutenant leaned forward, using the laptop's touchpad to open the other tabs at the bottom of the desktop, searching for more footage. But the only footage he found was of Paul dropping off the package at the front desk. The only other tab led to a webpage that had information on Father Leo and his ministry’s homeless shelter program on it.

Sitting back Gil gave a rattling breath, running both hands through his hair and tugging at it a little as he frowned at the screen. Ok, so clearly they needed more footage, but they had something to start with and that was good . . . at least, that’s what he told himself. “Ok, ok. . .” he said, collecting his thoughts as Dani turned, blinking, to him, “He headed to the right, towards Baker Street, right? There are some apartment and retirement buildings along that road, right? Where’s that footage?” Gil said, frowning at Dani. The woman sighed, shaking her head and wishing she had better news, “We’re trying to get that footage right now, but so far there’s not been much prog-” At that moment the door swung open, and JT stood there, frowning, “So we have a small problem.” 

Gil frowned, immediately standing up, “What is it? We didn’t already find Malcolm, did we?” JT sighed, shaking his head, “No, it’s not that. . .” “Well then what’s wrong?” Gil asked firmly, “Did you send the pictures to the rest of the force? Did you send them to the shelters? Have any of them recognized Paul? Have we gotten any more of the footage we need?”

JT sighed, and rubbed at the back of his head, eyes darting around the room nervously, “I have Marcus sending the pictures to everyone, telling them to just notify us if they recognize Paul, not to engage him. . . None have gotten back to us yet, obviously, and I’m assuming that we are still working on getting that footage. Our problem. . . is on the way. . .” Gil frowned, shaking his head, “What the hell do you me-” It was then that he saw her marching up to the conference room, bag swinging wildly at her side, coat pulled haphazardly around her, brunette hair flying back, the elegant curls still beautiful but moving about her head with a ferocity that matched the anger and worry in her eyes, which were at that moment focused on Gil. . . Perfectly put together and completely chaotic at the same time, she was the scariest Gil had ever seen Jessica Whitly. 

“She uh,” JT began, turning and glancing nervously at her, “She came into the station after Malcolm apparently didn’t answer his phone, and overheard two of the guys talking about him being taken, and . . . well. . .” at that moment Jessica shoved JT aside as she barged into the conference room, glaring at Gil, a wave of alcohol coming with her, telling him that obviously she’d spent the day coping with the Paul Lazar issue in typical Jessica fashion, “GIL ARROYO, YOU TELL ME RIGHT NOW WHERE THE HELL MY SON IS!”

Gil held up his hands in a calming gesture, “Now Jessica, I need you to sit down and calm down,” he whispered, trying to keep his voice even and calm. He had known that this confrontation had been coming ever since that phone call, but honestly he had hoped to have more time and more information, before the mother bear of a woman would rain down on him. 

“DON’T YOU DARE TELL ME TO CALM DOWN! I HAVE TRIED CALLING MY SON 5 TIMES GIL! 5!” she shouted in a way that rivaled Gil’s own volume earlier, “AND THEN I HAD MY DRIVER BRING ME DOWN TO THIS DAMN PRECINCT TO FIND HIM AND THE FIRST THING I HEAR IS THAT YOU’VE LOST HIM! YOU HAVE LOST MY BOY! MY MALCOLM! NOW YOU TELL ME RIGHT NOW WHERE MY SON IS!” she screamed, a tone of terror entering her voice as her eyes darted over and caught sight of the mutilated and crushed body photos on the evidence board. 

“It’s him, isn’t it,” she whispered hoarsely, staggering a little and having to reach a hand out and place it on the table to steady herself, “That’s the man who called us, who has my boy?” She turned, staring at Gil, and he saw the tears on the edges of her eyes. He knew she was fighting a break down. “WHERE HAS HE TAKEN MALCOLM?! WHERE IS MY SON, GIL?! YOU TELL ME RIGHT NOW!” she screeched. Gil sighed, and rested his hands gently on her shoulders, Dani and JT watching on in shocked silence. “Jessica, listen to me, we’re doing all we can to find Malcolm, you just need to cal-” the hard slap came out of nowhere, crossing his face and leaving it tingling as he stared at the wall of the room, having turned his head with the force of the blow.

Turning to Jessica again, he blinked in surprise at her as the tears began roll down the woman’s face, “I’LL CALM DOWN WHEN MY SON IS BACK IN MY ARMS, DAMMIT! TELL ME HOW YOU LOST HIM! TELL ME NOW! I TRUSTED YOU!” her voice broke with the last words, and reaching up she grabbed the front of his shirt in both hands, yanking on it and shaking him a little, “I TRUSTED YOU WITH MY MALCOLM, AND NOW THIS . . . THIS MONSTER. . . HE’S TAKEN HIM! TELL ME HOW THAT HAPPENED GIL! AND YOU BETTER FUCKING TELL ME HOW YOU AND THIS RAGTAG TEAM OF YOURS PLANS TO GET HIM BACK! TELL ME RIGHT NOW! RIGHT. . . now,” with that she collapsed into sobs against his chest, and he grunted, having to hold her up in his arms, sliding them around her sides and under her shoulders and holding her close as she cried, fighting back his own tears of frustration.

Nodding to Dani, he watched as the woman silently, still in shock at Jessica’s frantic reaction, slid a chair to be behind the elite woman. “Jessica, I swear to you, I’m not going to rest until we find Malcolm. I swear to you, I will find him and bring him back to you from Paul Lazar. And then I will make that killer PAY for whatever he has done to Malcolm and your family,” Gil said quietly, easing Jessica into the chair, moving to kneel before her as he did so, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to the trembling woman as she tried to collect herself, her mascara now streaming down the sides of her face. He vaguely noticed that the phone rang at the other end of the table, JT moving to answer it, as he did so.

Jessica looked at him, and he saw the fear and worry in her eyes, left behind by the anger as her rage had left her. “You’ll be able to do that?” she whispered, her voice weaker than he’d ever heard it since her police interview after Martin’s arrest. It made his heart sink with how weak and on the edge she sounded, but he nodded, managing his best reassuring smile, “I will. I promise, Jessica.”

“We’ll find Malcolm, Mrs. Whitly,” Dani murmured gently, resting a hand on Jessica’s trembling shoulder slowly, as if wondering if she might end up on the other end of a slap by doing so. “How?” Jessica whispered in a shaky, hoarse voice as she stared at Gil. He opened his mouth to respond, when JT cleared his throat, “Uh, boss? You might want to hear this. . .” the detective said, a hand over the speaker of the phone. Gil frowned and turned to him, resting a hand on one of Jessica’s, holding it firmly as she dabbed at her face with the handkerchief, muttering something about it being cheap fabric in classic Jessica Whitly fashion. “What is it, JT?” Gil said, blinking. JT grit his teeth and held out the phone towards the Lieutenant, “It’s the Clearview Retirement Apartment building on Baker Street. . . they’ve found some blood in a turnstile there and on the floor a few feet away from it. . . and a shattered cellphone. The manager is calling to see if we can investigate it.” Gil stared at JT, and Jessica frowned, looking from JT to Gil and back to JT again, “Is that. . . Is that . . .” “Malcolm,” Gil nodded, turning to her, “That’s our first lead in finding Malcolm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what did you all think? I would love to hear it in the comments below!


	5. A Smooth Talking Killer Named . . . Bill?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul is determined to get little Malcolm out of the service tunnels of the building before Gil Arroyo picks up his scent, interlopers and interruptions be damned. All the same, Malcolm is torn between trying to find a way to escape and to find a way to learn to manipulate this new killer. Is Paul really going to get away with Malcolm Bright, and if so, can Malcolm maintain control over his fight or flight instincts like Gil wants him to in order to survive this vicious killer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Yes, I know it has been a while since my latest update! Just wanted to try to give everyone a chance to read and catch up on this story because. . . well. . . this chapter. . . it's a lonnnng one, lol. Which is another reason why it's been nearly twenty days since my last update! Long chapters, long time proofreading, etc. I hope you all enjoy this latest edition to this little tale, as we switch away from Gil and his team for a moment to check in on Malcolm and Paul! Please, enjoy all the Malcolm Whump!

The two continued along the concrete corridors, the thuds of their shoes against the stone beneath them being the only sounds apart from Malcolm’s labored breathing around the cloth gag in his mouth. They passed a few doors here and there, but if they had signs beside them he didn’t have a chance to really read them with how quickly Paul was making him move. . . or was it John? If that memory had been correct, he at least had another alias for the man- perhaps even the man’s true identity- to add to his knowledge regarding the Junkyard Killer. ‘Not that it matters until I can use it,’ Malcolm thought ruefully, frowning behind the tape still on his lips. 

It was as they turned down another hallway that the profiler thought he heard a new sound echoing through the halls.Frowning, his eyebrows creasing, he tilted his head up just a little, Paul’s hand tightening around his head warningly and making him wince. “Don’t try anything stupid, boy,” the man warned in a voice that only promised pain, clearly assuming that Malcolm may be about to try to make a run for it. Malcolm grunted and shook his head just slightly, trying to convey to the larger man as he proceeded to bow his head again that he wasn’t planning anything at all. And in that moment, that was the truth. With that crushing hold on his wrists and firm grip on his head, how the hell was he supposed to get away from the killer? If there was such an option he’d be glad if he realized it soon though. 

After all, even though he was complying now and Paul wasn’t necessarily hurting him at that moment, he knew that his best option for survival was to get away from the killer and get back to Gil as soon as possible. Then, maybe they could use the potentially viable knowledge he had remembered about one of the man’s aliases to get Martin to open up about just who Paul/John was. Hell, maybe if he revealed to Martin that Paul had captured him with the intent to kill the man’s son, the narcissistic sociopath would be enraged enough that the killer had crossed that line to help them know how they should go about catching him successfully. Malcolm was certain his father would help him catch Paul if he let him know that. He knew Martin definitely would if he worked out a deal where he’d visit Martin each week, which honestly he would gladly agree to if it meant putting Paul behind bars for the crimes he’d committed. 

Malcolm heaved a deep breath around the cloth in his mouth, flexing his fingers and cracking his knuckles a little beneath the iron grip on them. . .If only he could get away from the killer, he could work with Gil and his team to put that plan into motion. . . As he took his next step, he heard the odd sounds from before again, and he all but froze, straining his ears to hear them more clearly. There it was! Though it started out faint, the sound of whistling and wheels squeaking against the cement floor gradually grew with each step they took, the sounds coming from a corridor ahead of them. Malcolm felt his heart race, as the sound grew closer and closer. 

“Dammit!” Paul hissed, clearly hearing the sound as well by now, and Malcolm grunted as in the next moment he was jerked to the side and twisted around so that his front faced Paul and his back faced the wall to the left of the pair. He cried out gently as his swollen knee spasmed in pain at the rapid movements, closing his eyes tightly as his head made contact against the stone in a way that made him black out for a second, his swollen knee buckling once he was slammed against the stone. He groaned behind the cloth as he slid down the wall a little before Paul changed his grip, moving his hand that had been on Malcolm’s head around so that it gripped the man’s tie and shirt collar, using those to hold him upright. Leaning forward the killer growled, pressing the upturned knuckles of that hand firmly against the man’s bloody chin, “Shut up kid!” he growled, the threat of what he would do to him if Malcolm disobeyed him dripping from his words and making the captured profiler shudder. 

Malcolm breathed hard, leaning his head back and closing his eyes tightly as his chest heaved, the pain that had shot up his leg at the rough actions slowly ebbing away but not entirely disappearing, lying along the edges of his consciousness. Instead his focus was on the rough stone that had scraped up against the knuckles and fingertips of his cuffed hands and that pressed against the sleeves of his suit as he was shoved up against the wall even more. Not to mention the throbbing pain at the back of his head that accompanied the slow trickling of blood through his hair from where he’d made contact with the wall. Meanwhile, the sounds of whistling and wheels rolling got louder and louder. . . he panted around the gag in his mouth, his throat expanding and retracting around the cloth with each second that passed as he tried to calm himself down, his hands shaking due to the stress of his situation and the additional pain he was in.

”Look at me,” Paul growled, pressing closer against the profiler’s chest, his body almost full flush against the younger man. Malcolm whimpered gently around the gag, forcing himself to listen to the man, but didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want to look back in those dark, cruel eyes. Not right now. . .The killer growled softly as Malcolm didn’t automatically open his eyes to meet his own, and he quickly pulled Malcolm away from the wall before slamming him hard back against it, the force of his arms accompanied by the weight of his body this time. 

Malcolm’s eyes squint shut tighter at the pain as the hit threatened to break his fingers, his head ringing as flashes of light appeared behind his closed eyelids and his ribs screamed in protest at the rough treatment, crying out behind the gag. Opening his eyes slowly, he groaned, hanging his head, feeling tears prickle once more at the edges of his crystal eyes, gazing at the man’s dirty pants. Once again having to regain his footing as the force of the man’s movements had nearly made him crumple to the ground. Leaning closer, making him shudder as he felt the hot breath on his cheek, Paul growled softly, and it made Malcolm shiver. It was like when Martin would purr, but so much more menacing. “Little Malcolm, didn’t you hear me? I said LOOK. AT. ME.” 

Malcolm shuddered and closed his eyes tightly, tears streaking down his bruised cheeks, as a harsh hand, the one that had been on his wrists, gripped his chin tightly, holding onto his jaw to the point of causing pain to shoot up from it. For a moment those hard fingers stroked his delicate skin firmly before jerking his head up so quickly Malcolm grunted in pain, squinting his eyes tighter as more tears leaked down his face, shaking all over. He tried twisting his head out of Paul’s grasp, but the man only growled more and tightened his hold. 

“Don’t you go getting a backbone on me, boy,” Paul hissed against his face, making Malcolm whimper as the man pushed further against him, Malcolm forced to press his throbbing head further against the stone to avoid being pressed against Paul’s face. He could hear the sneer in the man’s voice as he pressed his full body against the profiler, murmuring in his ear, “Daddy isn’t here to keep you safe from me this time, little Malcolm, and I’m a lot less merciful of a teacher than he is when it comes to you. In case you haven’t noticed.”

Malcolm shuddered, his hands shaking violently with their tremors at the mention of his father. Behind his eyelids he could see flashes of memories. ~A throbbing pain flooded his face, one he didn’t feel in the real world, and he was gazing up at the tops of trees as he lay on a cold forest floor, hearing to men arguing loudly and a woman screaming bloody murder. . .~ He felt the killer lean back a little, his lips brushing against the swollen, busted bridge of the profiler’s nose, “Now I’m only gonna ask you nicely one more fucking time, boy. LOOK. AT. ME!” the man snarled. With that he jerked even harder on Malcolm’s chin, and the profiler whined softly, giving up this temporary battle, slowly sliding his eyes open and letting the man see the tears at the edges of them, his face trembling in his harsh grasp. 

Paul’s dark eyes danced in a triumph that made Malcolm’s heart drop to his stomach as those cruel lips stretched into a cold smile, “Always told Martin he needed a firmer hand to handle a brat like you. . . Too bad he didn’t learn that lesson in time. . .” Malcolm only groaned in response as the man’s fingers continued to rub rough circles against his chin and cheek, pushing in on his cheeks to the point of forcing his jaws further apart and making him wince in pain behind the tape. Paul didn’t waste any more time reveling in his small victory, as he leaned closer, Malcolm’s painful tears sliding over his fingertips, “Now you are gonna listen to me if you know what’s good for you, boy. Understand?” Malcolm grunted around the cloth down his throat, jerking his head in a quick nod as he felt more blood trickle down his spine and heard the whistling and wheels grow even louder. 

“Good boy,” Paul sneered, slapping Malcolm firmly on his cheek and making the profiler wince a little as he took a step back, releasing his jaw in the process but keeping a tight grip on his tie and shirt collar. Then he took the hand that had been on Malcolm’s chin and using it, gripped the bill of his cap before he pulled it up and off of his head, his hood falling down from his face as he did so. Malcolm blinked, flickering his eyes over to the cap as the man held it to the side a little. As the man jerked his hand a little on the profiler’s tie and shirt, his blue eyes darted back over to focus on the killer again. 

“Now, as long as you keep calm, no one else has to get hurt, understand?” the man whispered softly, his tone a lot less menacing now. But the way his dark eyes staring firmly into Malcolm’s own with dark intent and promise in them, his words still shook profiler to his core. Malcolm gulped hard around the cloth and nodded. Paul smirked, “Good.” With that he moved the cap over to Malcolm’s face, the back of the dirty piece of clothing facing the brunette. Malcom grunted as the man lifted the cap up to be above his head. Still, he didn’t try to move away as the man sat the hat on his bloodied locks of hair 

“There we go,” Paul slurred as it rested on Malcolm’s head, before putting his hand flat with its palm facing down on top of the hat and shoving it further onto the younger man. Malcolm grunted, his head moving slightly due to the force used. Moving his hand down to the front of the hat, Paul smirked, gripping the bill before jerking it down, blocking Malcolm’s eyes from his for the moment. 

Malcolm grit his teeth around the cloth in his mouth, able to only see the man’s mouth with how far down his face the bill had been pulled. He felt Paul’s hand smoothing down the sides of the cap over his bloodied hair, pressing in on the cuts in a painful way that Malcolm felt was partially intentional as he did so, before finally he gripped Malcolm’s chin again, forcing it up so that Malcolm could look down his nose into the man’s face again. Once more he noted that the echoes of their approaching interloper had grown louder.

Leaning close, the man breathed his hot breath on the trembling man’s face, moving the hand that was on Malcolm’s chin to his fallen hood and pulling it back over his hair, “Now listen to me. We might be seeing someone in the next few minutes. Just some good, innocent worker here. . . I take it you don’t want to see them hurt because of your stupid ass, do you?” Malcolm shook his head. No, he wouldn’t want them hurt. Paul knew that even before he had asked his question. As the whistling continued to get louder and movement met the corner of his eye, Malcolm’s eyes darted to the left, blinking as a laundry cart could be seen turning down the corridor they were in. In spite of his resolve to do what Paul wanted, Malcolm’s legs tightened up, and he suddenly felt the urge to cry out, to instinctively seek help from the larger man he could see was pushing the cart. 

He grit his teeth, the urge to cry out or flee his horrible situation almost too great as he quickly tried to see if the man could actually take the killer on. . . he was trying to determine that for a second before the sound of the clicking of something metallic met his ears. Paul growled softly and moved the knife he now held in his free hand up, moving the hand that gripped Malcolm’s shirt down just enough so that he could press the blade against the man’s neck, the knuckles of the knife hand pushing Malcolm’s chin up to give the killer plenty of room to press the metal against Malcolm’s trembling skin. Malcolm whimpered softly, gulping hard as he felt the metal scraping his neck right over his Adam’s Apple, and shut his eyes tightly.

“I’ve seen the look that’s in your eye plenty of times before boy, I know what you want to do deep down. And let me tell you, while there’s always a possibility that whoever that man is might be able to take me on, there’s one thing we both know without a shadow of a doubt: if you scream for help it won’t take me any time at all to slice that pretty little throat of yours before I face him. And let me assure you I won’t lose any sleep if I have to do that. In a way, hearing you choke on your blood and my rag while I take him down too will make me happier than I’ve been in a long time, knowing that no matter what happens, I will have ended your fucking ungrateful ass’s life. And even better is the fact that whether or not I escape, when he gets here your precious Gil would only have you throbbing on the ground to find at best. . . and that’s only if he arrives soon enough to see you convulsing and choking on your own blood and my rag. Tell me, can you see that in your mind, boy?” Paul growled in a low dangerous voice.

Malcolm whimpered softly and nodded. The horrific part was he could. He saw that knife diggin deeper, slicing open his throat, saw Paul shoving him to the side and proceeding to kill or be subdued by the other man while Malcolm struggled on the ground, unable to staunch the bleeding because of his bound hands. In his mind he could see his body convulsing as he choked on his own blood, hands bound helplessly behind his back, fading more and more out of consciousness with each passing second. Until finally Paul would most likely kill the man and leave the two alone on the cold floor. Malcolm gulped hard, the knife scraping against his skin as he did so. Gil would be there soon, either because someone else in the building they were in would find Malcolm and the other man or because Gil would follow his movements with the traffic cameras but Malcolm knew that by the time the Lieutenant would get there, it’d be too late. Malcolm will have lost too much blood and would be lying motionless on the ground, or struggling to breathe, one. In his mind he could see the Lieutenant dragging Malcolm’s lifeless body into his lap, could imagine how angry and guilty the man might feel. . . and all because Malcolm couldn’t do what he said, couldn’t follow the simple instructions meant to protect him. Malcolm couldn’t let that happen, to Gil or himself. He’d have to wait Paul out, until he was sure he could get away without the other man fatally wounding him first. Or save his energy to fight for his life when it mattered the most, should Paul’s dislike for him take an especially lethal turn while still affording him a chance to fight off the killer and live.

Paul sneered, seeing the gears in the profiler’s head turn, and leaned forward, “I’ll ask you again, little Malcolm. Are you gonna do something stupid, or are you gonna behave? You don’t want any more blood spilt here, do you, boy?” Malcolm gulped hard around the cloth, coughing a little on it as it moved a bit too far down his throat, his arms shaking even more than before. Hanging his head forward, he shook his head, closing his eyes in defeat as Paul chuckled, moving the knife away quickly and sliding it back into his pocket before the approaching man got too close. “Good choice, little Malcolm, using that fucking head of yours for once,” Paul slurred, “So, if you want to keep yourself and whoever this is alive, the best thing you can do is just keep your head down, go along with whatever the fuck I say, and keep moving. Got it?” he snapped the last two words, the threat in his tone even more palpable than it had been before. It was then that the killer paused, clearly waiting for another response from the profiler. Malcolm sucked in a deep breath and nodded, opening his blue eyes to gaze fearfully into the other man’s dark ones from under the bill of the cap, still keeping his head properly tilted down.

Paul chuckled at the affirmative response, “Good. Then this should all go as smoothly as possible for everyone involved. Now. . .” using the hand that had held the knife, he reached around Malcolm and grasped his captive’s wrists firmly to the point of bruising before turning him around to face ahead of them again, sidestepping him away from the wall so fast it made the brunette stagger on his hurt knee, the hand that had been on Malcolm’s shirt releasing it and sliding along his shoulder to rest firmly in the middle of his collarbone. Grunting as Paul applied a sharp pressure with that hand, Malcolm forced himself forward, trying to keep as much weight off of his throbbing knee as possible. It was then that the man ahead of them seemed to notice the two.

“Hey Bill! Bill is that you?” his loud, boisterous voice called, echoing off of the walls of the hallway as he and the cart drew closer. Malcolm grit his teeth around his gag, eyebrows furrowing. ‘Bill? Who the hell is. . .’ His thoughts were answered as Paul spoke loudly back to the man, in a cheerful tone that seemed out of place to Malcolm as it came from the killer, given what Malcolm knew about him, “Yeah man, it’s me!” The killer moved quickly behind Malcolm after he had responded to the other man, his pressure on Malcolm’s back only easing up slightly, those fingers moving in hard, firm circles against his bloody suit as he continued to guide the profiler forward. Malcolm grit his teeth, closing his eyes and ducking his head even further to hide his face from view as he tucked away this new information. Now Paul had three names for him to remember: Paul, John, and . . . apparently . . .Bill. 

“Man I can’t believe you’re still here! Aren’t you usually off to some shelter by now?” the approacher said, clearly not sensing any foul play. Gulping hard, Malcolm chanced a glance up beneath the bill of Paul’s cap, his curiosity peaked as the man drew closer, wondering just what this man looked like. He blinked, seeing a rather heavy set man-like he’d assumed before- in a dark blue shirt with some sort of company logo on the front right pocket area of it. He thought he could make out a black belt woven through some dark blue khaki style pants on the man’s legs. He was about to lift his head up a little more to make out the man’s face, but a warning squeeze on his hands and collarbone made him bow his head again, knowing Paul wouldn’t approve of him lifting his head further and risk showing his face.

Malcolm lowered his head more as the pressure remained, Paul only letting up once his face was fully hidden again focusing on his feet once more, understanding the warning and feeling the fingers on his shoulders ease up on their grip, gently massaging his hurt shoulder as they continued on. So, Paul also went by the name “Bill” and apparently he worked at some shelters as well as this place? At least that was more information on the man. . .

“Yeah man, I usually am. . . and I was about to head out, ya know. . . but then wouldn’t you know I found this guy . . .” he moved his hand off of Malcolm’s wrists and clapped it against his shoulder firmly. Malcolm grunted slightly as he did so, tensing a little as the hand stayed on his arm, rubbing it up and down over his suit. “He was just laying down outside against one of those damn cement planters. Ya know, the ones outside that office building next door? Damn I felt bad for him, laying there all bloody and shit. Went over to help him up and poor guy didn’t even know where he was, did ya?” Paul finished with a good natured chuckle that could easily be perceived as an attempt to lighten up an otherwise embarrassing situation. Malcolm sucked in a deep breath and shook his head, playing along as prescribed. “That’s just terrible,” the overweight man sighed, “How the hell’d he get knocked down though? Looks like he got roughed up pretty bad . . .”

“Yeah . . . from what he was saying to me when I found ‘im I reckon he must have gotten knocked over by one of those damn bike messengers and smacked his poor head on the sidewalk. Rattled it around a bit, didn’t ya buddy?” Paul paused, and again Malcolm nodded obediently. Leaning back, Paul clapped his hands firmly on Malcolm’s shoulder again, “So you know, I figured I’d bring him back inside here, and get ‘im right on back up to his room!”

“Damn, those messengers are always going way too fast,” the other man said, shaking his head as his cart came to be parallel to them. Malcolm could see various amounts of dirty laundry in it, then saw the large arm of the man reaching out to him, his thick fingers reaching for the bill of his hat as if to check in on Malcolm’s condition himself. Malcolm’s eyes widened slightly, and he turned his head quickly away. Knowing if the man saw him gagged that the facade would be over and Paul would waste no time in killing the poor guy.

“Hey you ok man?” the man asked, leaning over and craning his head to try to peer under the bill, clearly worried about Malcolm being so quiet and elusive . . . Paul suddenly moved a bit faster, and Malcolm grunted as Paul moved up to be between them, patting Malcolm’s shoulder as he did so, his right arm stretched across his back, his left hand sliding from the middle of Malcolm’s back to his left shoulder, putting a bit of pressure on it, guiding Malcolm to turn towards him. Malcolm turned his head as his upper body twisted towards the killer, pressing his face against Paul’s shoulder just a little, trying not to breath in the man’s sweaty smell as he tried to completely hide his swollen and gagged face from the innocent worker. He could only hope that the other man would assume that he was still disoriented and confused and let that assumption explain his odd actions. Paul chuckled and patted his right arm again, letting him know that that was precisely what he had wanted Malcolm to do. “Yeah, he’s just a little shaken up, but I’ve got it all under control!” the killer said firmly, not missing a beat, “I’ll get him up to his room and he’ll be right as rain in nearly no time, Mark, don’t you worry!” 

“Who is he anyway? Not sure if I recognize him. . .” the man said, a hint of concern in his tone, “Didn’t get that good a look either though . . . could be anyone.” “Ah, you know Gerald! The new tenant on floor 4? Just moved in two weeks ago when his wife passed away?” Paul continued in that same jovial tone, keeping up his “Good Samaritan” act, “We just had another one of those damn episodes, didn’t we Gerald? Thought you were going to that church Maria used to work at, didn’t ya?” With that he jostled Malcolm’s other shoulder in a way that appeared good natured. Malcolm nodded to all of what the man said sliding his arms up to hide his wrists underneath the tail of his coat as an afterthought as they made their way further from “Mark”, in case the man should turn to look back at the pair. He heard Paul grunt appreciatively and let a sigh escape through his nose. Apparently he had hid his wrists just in the nick of time, as in the next instant the wheels could be heard stopping as Mark sighed.

“Damn that sucks man,” Mark said, and the sympathy in his voice made Malcolm’s stomach turn at how easily he ate up Paul’s lie. But with the trusting, happy tone Paul used, who wouldn’t? It sickened him, to know how much more dangerous the ability to carry on such a facade made the killer. “You’ll be alright now though, Gerald,” Mark continued in that same pitying tone, “It’ll all be oka- hey, Bill, if you’re running late now, I can take old Gerald up to his floor, you know?”

“Naw man, I got it,” Paul said sending a smile over his shoulder, hurrying Malcolm on a little faster and making him grunt gently as he forced himself to keep up. “But you’ve done so much for me and Carol, it’s the least I can do!” Mark called from behind them. “Damn that’s nice of you, but I’d hate to put you out of your way, maybe I’ll take you up on it next time, huh?” Paul said, sounding pretty grateful. If he wasn’t the man’s latest victim, Malcolm supposed even he would believe that emotional facade as the truth. “After all, you’ve got all that laundry to do so I’d hate to add an extra burden to ya, and it won’t take me any time at all to get Gerald here on up to his room!” Paul continued in that same upbeat tone. 

“Well, alright man, you are right about that I guess . . . but only if you’re sure?” the other said, lingering slightly. “Yeah we’ll be fine, don’t worry ‘bout it!” Paul said happily, one hand leaving Malcolm’s outside shoulder to wave the other man off, “See ya tomorrow man!” “Yeah man, see ya later! Hope you feel better soon Gerald!” Mark called as Paul and Malcolm turned right, heading down another smaller hallway, the one Mark had come out of. Malcolm could hear the man continue to push his cart further away and sighed, sagging his shoulders, moving his head away from Paul’s shoulder. Paul sighed deeply, patting Malcom’s shoulders firmly before he upped the pace a little, his grip tightening on Malcolm’s shoulders and urging him forward, “Good job kid. Not perfect, but good job,” he growled softly in Bright’s ear, making the profiler grind his teeth further into the cloth. He was grateful that he had kept Paul from hurting that man, of course, but the praise coming from the killer still burned his soul.

They had only gone about a yard before Paul spoke again. “Almost outside, just a few more steps and. . . left,” Paul continued. As Malcolm was turned to the left and brought to a stop he lifted his face up slightly, chancing a glance up from beneath the brim of the hat before staring at the old steel door before them, a scanner pad similar to the one that had been beside the door he’d entered the building through set into the wall to the left of it with a light on the scanner glowing red. 

The man smirked, “Finally. Time to get this fucking show on the goddamn road. . .” with that he immediately shoved Malcolm forward, the profiler giving a weak cry around the rag in his mouth as he fell, hitting the ground with his knees after tripping forward two steps. “Fucking stay there, and don’t fucking try anything or you’ll pay hte consequences,” Paul growled, moving his hands off of Bright and walking past him, bumping him hard in his side with his leg and making Malcolm moan, shifting away from that side as he looked up, watching as the man turned his back to him, facing the key pad. 

As he watched the killer fumble around in his pocket, realization dawned on Malcolm. For the first time since the turnstile, Paul wasn’t holding him. His heart hammered as the man pulled his wallet from his pocket, opening it up before flipping through the cards that it held. Gritting his teeth, Malcolm knew that his decision to act or remain on the floor had to be made quickly. In that instant, he chose to act. He couldn’t just not take this opportunity. . .He grunted, leaning on his good side as much as possible, and staggered upright, breathing heavily as he did so. Turning his head, he panted, deciding to try to go the way they’d come. . . maybe he could find Mark before Paul could get his hands on him again. . .

Suddenly a beeping sound was heard and Malcolm knew Paul had unlocked the door. He grit his teeth, ready to move as fast as he could away from there, knowing this was his only chance. It was then that the hard hand of his captor encircled his left arm and Malcolm grunted as the man’s hot breath was on his neck again, “Don’t even fucking think about it, brat.” the man snarled, twisting around and throwing him through the now open door and into the alley beyond. 

Malcolm didn’t even have time to cry out as in the next instant his chest and face made contact with asphalt, his body sliding forward from the force of the throw. The ground beneath him bit savagely at his face and he wheezed around the cloth, certain that if he hadn’t had broken ribs before he definitely did now. As he heard the door behind him slam closed followed by Paul’s hard footsteps as the killer moved towards him, he grunted, drawing his knees in, trying to get himself upright. “And here I thought you’d learned something finally, you sorry shit,” Paul growled, reaching down and grabbing Malcolm’s left arm again before wrenching him up the rest of the way. 

Malcolm cried out as it felt like his arm was nearly dislocated, shutting his eyes tight as his legs scrambled for purchase on the ground below. He never had a chance as before he could get them properly beneath him, he was whipped around and the hard fist of the man struck him square in the jaw. Malcolm screamed behind the gag as his head was flung to the side and he saw stars, the fist like a sledgehammer as it connected against him, and staggered backward with the force of the hit, his back slamming hard against the wall of a metal dumpster.

“I should fucking break your legs for trying to run, you sorry shit,” Paul growled, walking forward and gripping Malcolm’s neck in a crushing hold before the killer slammed it back and against the dumpster, making Malcolm’s world spin in a slurry of color as he howled around the gag. In the center of his swirling vision, he saw Paul’s cruel smirk, like some sick and twisted anchor for his eyes to focus on. The man leaned forward, growling against Malcolm’s trembling throat in a way that made the profiler whine pitifully as the man’s hard thumb stroked his exposed skin, rubbing against his Adam’s Apple.

“But maybe later. . .it’ll be helpful if you can walk, after all. So for now, I’m going to give you a little present. Something that’ll still remind you what happens when you disobey me. Hopefully it’ll teach you a lesson that lasts for a very, very long time,” the man purred.

Malcolm groaned, trying to keep up with the man’s words, but with the way he’d just been slammed against the dumpster, he was still trying to figure out just the words Paul was saying when a searing hot pain shot through his lower abdomen. He threw his head back, eyes shut tight as he screamed behind the cloth in his mouth as the man’s knife sank deep inside of him, dragging his mind back into focus.

Paul leaned forward, smirking at the sobbing man, Bright’s chest heaving with each breath as the killer pushed the knife in deeper, sinking it between his clothing, skin, and muscles, pushing it to the hilt beneath the stretch of skin to the left of the area just below Bright’s belly button. His hot breath hit Malcolm’s cheek as he sneered at him, “How does it feel boy? Is it agonizing? Is it painful?” Malcolm only continued to whimper and jerk against his hold, unable to move away as he was pinned up against the dumpster. “Was it worth this, boy? That sorry excuse for an escape attempt? Was it worth this pain?” With that he twisted the knife and Malcolm screamed even louder, banging his body against the dumpster in an instinctive need to get away from the monster holding him. Paul sneered and his grip on his victim’s throat only tightened, making Bright begin to cough and gag around the cloth as his airways were gradually cut off.

Paul’s eyes were black as pitch as he glowered at the man before him, the sorry excuse for a human being. . . “Look at it, boy. Look at the wound I’ve given you. Just like the one you gave me so many years ago, when your father wasn’t strong enough to control his rebellious son. That was what his stupidity cost me. . . now look at what your stupidity has cost you. . .” Paul growled, his breath hitting Malcolm’s cheek. Malcolm only continued to sob around the gag, tears flowing large down his cheeks, and growling, the killer moved the hand around his throat to be around the back of the profiler’s head, jerking it down so that Malcolm couldn’t help but stare down at the knife digging deep into his body.

Malcolm breathed hard, his heart quickening at the amount of blood streaming over the man’s fingers and down his arm before dripping onto the ground, the sight of it only heightening his panic and making him weep even more. Suddenly, he saw something entirely different. . . the roles were reversed, and his tiny, childhood hand gripped the hilt of a familiar knife, the blade firmly planted beneath the surface of a plaid shirt. . . he watched as blood streamed over his fingers, hearing a deep, angry yell rolling down from above him. . .

Malcolm was ripped from his memory as Paul jerked his hand away from him, taking a step back and smirking as the profiler fell to the ground. Instantly the man kicked him hard in his new stab wound, smirking down at him, “You got off easy this time, boy. Remember that.” Malcolm yelped as the hit landed, and curled in on himself, trying to protect his wound even as it stained his clothes further. “If I were you, or at least a smarter version of you,” Paul sneered at Malcolm, and swinging his boot out, slammed it forward, straight into the profiler again, this time striking his chest. Malcolm howled in agony around the gag as he jerked back, two ribs snapping on contact with the man’s boot, his body banging against the dumpster as pain shot through him.

“I would LEARN PRETTY DAMN QUICK. . .” Paul continued, and the next hit slammed into the other man’s abdomen again, as Malcolm had moved away from protecting his wound as he’d arched back and away from it. The fresh hit to it earned a new wail of pain from the profiler, “TO DO. . .” the man shouted, and the next hit landed against Malcolm’s crotch, making him curl back in, shouting out. “WHAT I DAMN SAY!” he finished, hitting Malcolm’s chest, knees, abdomen, and head in that order with each word. Malcolm fell silent with the final hit his head lulling on the ground as it throbbed in agony, blood seeping from between his lips and dribbling down his chin, new cuts and bruises forming on his forehead and cheeks.

Malcolm panted, his dull blue eyes blinking at the man’s boots, shaking all over, his hands jerking violently as pain enveloped him. For ages it seemed he lay like that, his busted rib cage heaving, tears and snot streaking down his face as his body throbbed in agony. As Paul leaned down and reached a hand out to his face, he flinched away, whimpering, but that hardly stopped the killer from grasping his chin, his dark eyes piercing into the brunette’s frightened blue ones. “Understood?” the man purred, as if he hadn’t just stabbed then kicked the shit out of him. Before Malcolm could even respond, a sudden shout made both men turn their gaze to the right of Paul. 

Malcolm’s eyes widened as a man in a dirty oversized sweatshirt and pants with some ratty old boots on his feet stared at them from where he stood at the other end of the alley. The man’s hair was wild and overgrown as was his beard, and he was covered in dirt from head to foot. Paul stood up straighter, frowning at the homeless man as said man hobbled forward, “What the hell’s goin’ on here?!” the man demanded. “This doesn’t concern you, you piece of shit!” Paul snapped back, “You’d be better off turning around and leaving the way you came.” 

“LEAVE?! THIS IS MY PLACE!” the man shouted, moving closer, either not seeing the threat Paul was or not caring about any threat he did perceive. . . “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING TO THAT GUY?! WHAT’S GOING O-” the man was cut short as Paul growled and pulling a gun fitted with a silencer from the waistband of his pants, whipped it around and pointed it directly at the interloper. 

Malcolm stared, eyes wide and full of pity for the poor homeless man as the killer shot the guy in the throat without a second thought. The man’s neck exploded in a spray of red and he fell to his knees, gasping and gurgling as he gagged on his own blood, Paul’s lips curled in disgust at him. “You should have listened to me old man,” Paul sneered, “You and little Malcolm here seem to have the same goddamn problem. . .” Turning, seeing the camera of the apartment building they had just left, he sneered and aimed his gun right at it. “Hope you’ve been watching this, Arroyo. It’s turned into quite the goddamn show,” he hissed, and shot his next bullet straight at the camera, the thing exploding in a spray of sparks on contact. 

With that he turned and grabbing Malcolm’s arm just under his shoulder, began to drag the profiler away from the hacking, dying man, not even glancing back at him. Malcolm screamed and writhed in the man’s grip, Paul’s grip on his arm not loosening at all despite his efforts. “He is going to die because of you, boy,” Paul growled softly, only grunting a little as Malcolm continued to twist and turn, “He suffers because of you, remember that . . . if you had just behaved, he would have never gotten involved with us and would have never posed an obstacle to me. Tell me. . .” they had reached a white van at the other end of the alley, and Paul jerked his arm forward, slamming Malcolm into the ground between him and the van’s bumper. 

Malcolm grunted, eyes shooting shut as he slammed into the hard ground, and tilted his head up, glaring hatefully at Paul, who frowned down at him, “Who will pay for your disobedience next little Malcolm? Your mother, sister? Don’t forget I can still get them too, boy,” he purred a cold smile crossing his face, “And what fun we could all have together. . .” Malcolm grit his teeth around the gag, the images of Jessica or Ainsley being tortured by the killer once more flitting through his mind. In spite of him wanting to keep rebelling against the coldblooded killer, those images alone were once again horrific enough to silence him into obedience. He glanced at the homeless man now laying on the ground and convulsing at the other end of the alley. Near death already. . . He sobbed softly around the gag and closed his eyes, bowing his head, tears racing hot down his cheeks. He couldn’t let that happen to his family. . . couldn’t let Paul just kill them like they were nothing. . . he just couldn’t . . . he had to keep Paul away from them as much as he could. . . he had to. . . “If you do as I say no one else will be hurt because of you, boy,” Paul muttered, taking a firm step forward and placing a boot firmly on Malcolm’s side and putting pressure on his new wound, making Malcolm wail against his gag as the man leaned forward, quickly unlocking the back van door to the right and swinging it open. 

Malcolm panted hard against hte pavement as the door swung open, moments before that hard hand was back on his arm and lifting him up before shoving him towards the vehicle. He staggered, his knees hitting the van’s bumper hard as they connected with it, making him lean forward and whimper gently. Lifting his head up he stared at the inside of the van. The very back of the van had four beige rolling carts filling it up with only a foot separating the top of each cart from the roof of the vehicle, two of the carts having countless trays on them containing closed styrofoam food plates, while two carts sat empty. 

To the direct right of the push carts he could see a metal ramp for unloading the food carts off of the van sat firmly between them and the wall of the vehicle. Behind the carts he could see what appeared to be a large opaque wall made of some sort of hard plastic, completely obstructing his view of the rest of the vehicle’s inner workings. The wall appeared to be set into a self made sliding door frame set into the structure. Definitely a project Paul had taken on himself, Malcolm figured. Paul leaned forward, shoving the empty cart furthest to the right over before he moved back behind Malcolm and gripped his shoulders. “Go on,” the man growled and pushed him forward. Malcolm grunted, stepping up with his good leg and into the small space the movement of the car had created, wincing as his side wound throbbed.

Paul quickly moved up into the van behind him, leaning so close to Bright that his entire body seemed to press against Malcolm’s, dwarfing the profiler. Malcolm breathed hard, his heart hammering at the close quarters he now shared with Paul, having to bend down slightly due to the small height allowance of the back of the van. As Paul paused and closed the back door of the vehicle, Malcolm blinked at the carts with food plates, processing the fact that they were there. It was then that he realized how Paul had gotten his victims. After all, who wouldn’t trust the man bringing them a hot meal from some charitable organization?

Leaning past him, shoving Malcolm against the side of the van and making him whimper, Paul grabbed the cart before them and moved it out of the way so that nothing remained between them and the closed sliding wall, “Forward. NOW, boy.” Malcolm grunted and staggered forward, his heart hammering as the man leaned forward and with the same set of keys he’d used to unlock the outer door of the van and unlocked the sliding one before he slid the opaque wall aside. 

Malcolm’s eyes widened as Father Leo, now with only one hand as his new stump for an arm was tucked in towards his chest, jerked awake from where he’d sat against the wall of the van in the space beyond. Turning his head, the beaten man stared fearfully at Malcolm and the killer beside him. “Hi there, Father, thought you might like some company,” Paul sneered, and Malcolm saw that the priest had been secured via his remaining hand in a set of handcuffs attached to the wall of the van above his head via a firm looking metal bolt, his legs bound in duct tape and laid helplessly before him as he was forced to sit on the floor. Malcolm’s stomach turned at the sight of the battery operated circular saw, still blood splattered from the dismembering Paul had performed earlier that day, laying beside the priest on the side of him opposite Paul and Malcolm, right beside the wall created by the front seats of the van.

The priest shouted some sort of obscenity, anger sparking in the old man’s eyes at Paul as he shoved Malcolm forward. Tripping over the priest’s legs in the small space, Malcolm cried out as he slammed hard against the metal floor of the van, eyes shutting tight as his nose was busted yet again. Drawing his legs up beneath him he moaned moments before his hands were grabbed as Paul straddled him from behind, pinning him to the ground, “Watch what you say to me, Father. God and I won’t like you very much otherwise. . .” with that Malcolm heard the flick of the knife again and jumped, whimpering, before the plastic tie connecting his wrists was cut through in one swipe, the metal weapon nicking his hands as the killer freed him of his bonds. It was a bittersweet feeling, being freed in the middle of a still hopeless situation.

Getting up quickly, Paul grabbed Malcolm by the shoulders and moved off of him, crouching down as he forced the profiler up off the floor before twisting him around and slamming him against the wall of the van. Malcolm grunted as his head made contact, dazed once more and giving Paul the opportunity to grip his wrists and wrench them over his head, a well practiced maneuver Malcolm was sure the bastard could do in his sleep. The man moved with a skill and familiarity that only came from binding people up like this a million times. . .Opening his tear filled eyes, he looked up, shaking as his chest heaved and wounds throbbed in agony as the man quickly latched his slender wrists into some tight handcuffs that had been bolted into the wall of the van above where Malcolm now sat, just like Leo’s handcuffs were.

Darting his eyes down as Paul moved towards his feet, Bright shuddered behind the gag, trying to move his legs in as Paul tried to bring his ankles together, the roll of duct tape having been taken back out of his pocket at some point. He knew what Paul wanted to do, and longed for his legs to remain free, as he pulled them away from the killer. Immediately those dark eyes shot up to focus on his face and narrowed, chilling him to the bone, “What did I say about breaking your legs, boy? Would you rather that happen right now instead?” 

Malcolm shuddered, tears leaking down his face, having drawn his knees up near his chin. Paul growled, holding out his hand expectantly, fingers stretched towards the profiler, “NOW, boy. I won’t ask you again.” Malcolm shuddered and closed his eyes as he slowly slid his legs back out towards Paul. The second that they were within range, Paul’s fingers grasped the man’s ankles firmly, making Malcolm jump a little, his hands rattling in their chains. 

“Good boy,” the man growled, gripping his ankles with both hands and yanking them harshly the rest of the way, making Malcolm moan in pain as he did so. Opening his glassy eyes he could only watch as the man quickly wrapped the duct tape at least ten times tightly around the both of them. He frowned a little around the cloth as the man then proceeded to wrench off his shoes and toss them aside. “Now, look at the front seat,” the man growled as he yanked the final dark grey sock off of Malcolm’s right foot, wiggling it a little to shimmy it off of Bright’s toes.

Malcolm glanced over to that area as the killer had directed him to, twitching a little as the man’s right hand’s fingers rubbed at his heel on his left foot before sliding up the appendage, massaging it a little as he did so. Malcolm whimpered softly at the tickling sensation that followed as the man traced one finger down the center of that foot, his other hand firmly grasping the duct tape bonds the man was in in its palm.

“See that plastic door at the top?” Paul murmured, moving his hand away from Malcolm’s foot while still keeping a firm hold on the tape of his ankles. Malcolm blinked and nodded, seeing the door. Most of the area over the front seat was a smaller version of the plastic wall that blocked where they were from the back of the van, but in the center of the front seat was a sliding door built into the plastic, kind of like the moveable rear window on a pick up truck. “I’ll have that closed while I make my two remaining stops, understand? Along with the door we just came through. No one will be able to hear you or see you, no matter how much noise you make, so don’t even fucking try to cause trouble, boy. If you do, you may not be heard, but you will be punished for your efforts, understand me?” the man muttered in an eerily calm voice, clearly satisfied now that he had Malcolm secured.

Malcolm shuddered and nodded, still gazing at the little window like door. “Good,” Paul chuckled, “And tell ya what, if you’re a good boy, I’ll even stitch up that little hole you’ve managed to get in your side, how’s that sound?” Malcolm was about to nod again, but then a sharp pain shot up his right foot from heel to toe and he shouted out, whipping his head around, trying to jerk his legs back instinctively from the killer who now had a smirk firmly on his face as his eyes watched Malcolm’s pain filled expressions. He wasn’t able to move his legs of course, since Paul still had a remarkably good grip on the duct tape, and Malcolm shuddered, eyes widening as he stared at the man who smirked sadistically right back at him, that coldness in his eyes mixed with a distinct blood lust as he twirled his blood stained knife through his fingers, the man holding it with his free hand as he moved his other hand to grip Malcolm’s left ankle after he had just sliced up the middle of the younger man’s right foot, “Just to remind you what’ll happen if I decide you walking is more trouble than it’s worth, brat. In case my little knife wound isn’t enough. . .” with that the knife raced up the left foot’s sole too and Malcolm shut his eyes tight, shouting out as he jerked back against the van’s wall, earning a loud bang from the vehicle’s paneling.

Paul smirked as Father Leo shouted in protest from behind his own gag on the other side of the vehicle, the killer flippantly letting go of his ankles and allowing the profiler to draw his legs in towards himself. Malcolm winced, eyes on the van floor as he tried to rest his bent up legs’ feet on said floor’s metallic surface, the cuts on them shallow but still deep enough to make any pressure applied to them lead to a spark of sharp pain. He jerked his feet up as that pain shot through him, and grunting, moved around and shifted his body as best as he could so that he could bend his knees beneath him with his soles in the air, shifting to almost sit sideways against the wall of the van with his head and shoulders still facing Paul who sneered, standing up, sliding his knife back into his pocket, “See you in a bit, boy. . .” 

Turning, Paul walked towards the opaque wall, sidestepping near Father Leo’s cursing form as he did so, the man glaring hatefully at Paul as he hurled muffled obscenities at the cold blooded killer. As Malcolm kept his eyes focused on the floor, he was now able to see that the Father’s feet were sliced too, but far deeper than his own. Paul sneered at the priest’s obscenities, “Seeya later Father. . .” with that the man’s hand shot out, gripping the priest’s forehead before slamming him ruthlessly back against the van wall. Malcolm could only watch on as the man slumped, having suffered so much blood loss that just that hit knocked him out. The sound of a door opening made him jerk his gaze from Leo to the right, and he blinked as the opaque wall slid closed again behind Paul, leaving him and the bound unconscious priest alone in their little portion of the van.

He felt rather than heard the man step off of the van and slam the back door closed, and as Paul made his way around the side of the van, banging some tune against the side of it and making Malcolm jump slightly as one hit slammed right beside where he was now trapped, the feeling of being trapped here by the monster of a man fully set in, chilling Malcolm to his bones. Shuddering, he turned his head as the man opened the driver’s side door and slid into the front seat. Leaning over and turning his head, the man locked his cold, amused eyes on the profiler through the now open sliding window, “I figure I’ll let you have some peace and quiet while you process everything, little Malcolm. Let you figure out what lessons you need to learn in order to not get on my last damn nerve. I have to say, I hope Martin’ll be happy with the final product of all this. After I’ve finally taken care of his traitorous prodigal son.” With that he gripped the door and slammed it closed, starting up the van in the next instant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I know that I switched between Malcolm wanting to comply and Malcolm wanting to escape quite a bit. That's because I wanted to show the conflict between the emotional part of Malcolm that wants to desperately escape Paul and the pain he inflicts and the logical part of Malcolm that knows he needs to play along to try to learn how to manipulate Paul somehow in the future. Also, just so you all know, I did check to make sure that the stab wound Paul gives him is NOT fatal, just painful. Anyway. . . hope you all enjoyed it! Please leave comments down below! They are what I use to feed my plot bunnies!!!!!!


	6. The Boy and His Protector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Gil, Jessica, and the team get ready to head to Clearview to find out what has happened to Malcolm, hoping to catch Paul Lazar before he can get too far away, Gil reflects on his relationship with the profiler, and how he started taking on a father figure role in the troubled man's life, way back in his youth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW RIGHT?! TWO CHAPTERS IN ONE WEEK?! FROM ME?! CRAZY! NOT EVEN I EXPECTED IT! AND YET HERE IT IS! As a heads up, most of this chapter is made up of a flashback to three months after Martin got arrested and Gil pays the Whitly family a little house call. It's just a way to start to show how the relationship between him and Malcolm started and proceeded to evolve over time, but I hope you enjoy it! This is mostly a chapter centered around Gil's need to protect Malcolm and make sure that he gets his profiler back safe and sound, with plenty of (what I hope to be) childlike adorableness from a young Ainsley Whitly and plenty of Jessica Whitly being. . . well, Jessica Whitly . . . thrown in for your reading pleasure, with just enough trauma tossed in the mix that it appeals to the darker psychological side of this tale of mine!

Gil wasted no time in marching briskly out of the evidence room, knowing without having to look that his team and Jessica were on his heels. “Powell, contact Edrisa and have her and her team go directly to Clearview! I want them to scour that turnstile and anywhere else Paul Lazar could have taken Malcolm! Once you’re done talking to them, you’ll come with me and we’ll go directly over to meet with the building manager! JT, I take it he will be meeting us at the front door of the place?" 

"Yes, he said he would be right there, boss,” JT replied quickly, and out of the corner of his eye Gil could see Dani branch off from the rest of the group, her phone pressed to her ear, contacting autopsy. “Good,” the team leader whispered so softly he was sure no one could hear it. His heart was once again hammering in his chest, but this time not solely because of fear or worry, although he was sure he would feel those two emotions constantly until he had Malcolm back . . . and maybe under 24/7 surveillance until the kid learned the meanings of the words “back” and “up”. Yes, fear and worry were still definitely at the forefront of the Lieutenant’s mind, but this time his heart raced due to anticipation and adrenaline as well.

He honestly couldn’t believe his luck as he pulled out his smartphone, quickly opening his GPS app and entering in the name of the building just as JT had recited it to him. Yes, it was definitely the Clearview he had assumed it to be, and that fact gave him the first spark of true hope he’d felt in the past few minutes, primarily because of how close the building was.

Although it had felt like an eternity since he’d spoken to Paul Lazar on the phone, he knew it had been only about twenty minutes. And if Paul was having to take an injured Malcolm with him wherever he was planning to go, there was a high probability that the killer, no matter how efficient he may be, couldn’t have gotten too far from where he’d initially subdued Bright by now. And Clearview was a massive apartment building that two years prior had been turned into an Assisted Living Facility, catering mainly to people who were old and retired or who needed special assistance either physically, mentally, or emotionally. 

Furthermore, Gil knew from visiting his mother before she passed away a year ago that beneath the building was a series of corridors forming a maze that ran the entire length of the structure with elevators set at various points along them to allow for the quick transport of workers and supplies throughout the entire facility, should they need to get to any of the residents’ rooms quickly. The maze was an efficient, innovative idea, for sure. However, for someone who needed to get from one end of the set of corridors to the other, it could also mean a lot of walking.

Gil grit his teeth, trying not to get his hopes too high regarding the fact that Paul could still be trying to get out of those tunnels with Bright, meaning that the pair may still be in the building at that exact moment. The Lieutenant knew it was a far fetched theory formed out of Gil’s need to find Malcolm, and he knew that Paul could very well be miles away from them by now, since Paul had been so far ahead of Gil already when he’d made that call, but Gil couldn’t help but hope for the best. 

Of course, if Paul and Malcolm were in fact still in the building, it meant he had to play things right. He couldn’t simply charge into the place guns blazing. The Lieutenant knew all too well that one of the of the most dangerous points of time when catching a killer was when they had a hostage and they felt cornered. And he had a feeling that the sadist in Paul Lazar wouldn’t back down quietly and hand Malcolm over if he realized he was in that corner.

No, that bastard would most likely kill or fatally wound Bright before turning his attention to everyone else, just so that Gil and the others wouldn’t have the satisfaction of getting Malcolm out of there alive. The man’s haunting words that assured Gil of that floated back to the top of Gil’s subconsciousness. Yes, he definitely had to be careful about his next move. If Paul felt any sort of pressure, he may follow through with his threat and end Malcolm’s life. Gil wouldn’t be able to live with himself if that happened when they were so close to potentially getting Bright back . . .

“JT, I want you to take some good men and set up a loose perimeter around the building. Monitor every opening in and out as closely as you can. Watch both service and pedestrian entrances. Wear civilian clothes and I don’t want any cop cars anywhere in the vicinity, understood? I don’t want Lazar getting wise about us until we’ve got him where we want him. Keep your guards up, and if you see Malcolm with Lazar and have a shot that you KNOW will kill Paul, I want you to fucking take it. Just please. . . be careful and don’t hit Bright.” 

He turned and glanced over his shoulder at JT, Jessica frowning as she walked directly behind him, the woman keeping up remarkably well with the older man in spite of wearing high heels. As Gil looked at JT, the mother turned her head to blink at him as well, and the man smiled and nodded, “You got it boss. No problem. See you there. Ma’am,” he added the last to Jessica out of respect before hurrying off, clearly happy that they finally had a lead not just for finding Bright, but for capturing Lazar as well. 

“Edrisa and her team are on their way to the building now, boss,” Dani’s no nonsense voice said firmly on the other side of Gil, and the man turned, blinking at Dani as she stood before him, holding up a bullet proof vest for the man to put on, already wearing one herself under a jacket. She smiled a little at him, and he knew she felt the same relief and slight hope that he did. Even though this was a slim chance to find Bright, it was at the very least a good lead. 

Even if they didn't find Bright, they could at least analyze the footage from the building's security system and maybe figure out where Malcolm might have been taken by Paul. The could hopefully even find out what goddamn car the killer drove so that they could try to track him that way, if they were unable to capture them at Clearview and bring the profiler back to the precinct safely before that 

Gil hoped that the latter possibility was true, but right now he’d honestly take whatever help he could get, whether it saved Malcolm today or brought them all closer to finding him tomorrow. Shrugging out of his jacket and reaching forward the Lieutenant immediately began putting the vest on, “Right. You and I are going to go meet them there and go over security footage.” Dani nodded, smiling, “Of course. . .” her eyes flitted to Jessica standing behind Gil, “Mrs. Whitly, you can stay in a waiting room here, if you’d like?” she said, motioning towards the nearest one, “We’ll be sure to contact you as soon as-”

“Like hell I will,” Jessica said, pushing firmly past Gil and towards Dani, moving to the hooks on the wall behind where the woman stood and grabbing a bullet proof vest of her own off of it, “I WILL NOT just sit here twiddling my thumbs while my little boy is out there somewhere. I am going with the both of you, whether you like it or not. End of discussion. And I take it you won’t let me go without one of these gaudy, infernal things on. . . SO SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME HOW TO PUT THIS DAMN THING ON!” the woman snapped, shaking the vest angrily, unable to make much sense of the straps of the device in her sense of urgency. 

Dani frowned and opened her mouth to object. After all, this was far from standard procedure, and could endanger the elite woman’s life, not to mention complicate the situation should she split off somehow and Paul found her. Jessica narrowed her eyes at Powell, silently daring her to say something, and Gil smiled, holding up a hand, “Don’t even try, Powell.” marching over, he moved to stand before Jessica, turning and smiling apologetically at Dani, “I’ve known for a long time that sometimes with Jessica Whitly it’s best to just let her be.” 

Dani closed her mouth and nodded, though she still definitely looked uneasy. Turning to Jessica, Gil smiled at her, “Let’s get you into this thing and go figure out what’s happened to your rebellious son, shall we?” Jessica made a huffing sound, rolling her eyes and pushing the vest into the man’s arms, “Hopefully we’ll do a lot more than that, Gil. Don’t think I’ve forgiven you yet for letting my son get taken by some psycho. I trusted you with my boy, and now you tell me that he may very well get killed,” the woman muttered matter-of-factly, the news about Malcolm’s kidnapping appearing to have sobered her up. 

Gil sighed. As much as he could tell himself that Malcolm had followed Lazar of his own will, against what Gil had always advised him regarding investigations, a part of him felt responsible for Malcolm being taken. That was the part of him that was most desperate to find the profiler alive, as quickly as possible. Malcolm may be just another profiler to the rest of the NYPD, but Gil had felt personally responsible for the kid ever since he’d contacted him regarding Whitly’s copycat. If he was honest, he’d felt responsible for Malcolm long before that, before Malcolm had even gone to Quantico. . .

~Gil stood once more on the front stoop of the large Whitly home, hands shoved in his pockets as the cold New York rain poured down around him, hitting the shoulders of his long trenchcoat as he blinked at the burgundy door standing firmly before him, the ornate golden W set upon it shimmering as the rain ran along its grooves. The September wind was so fierce it sent the water underneath the small stone awning, rendering any ability it had of keeping him dry moot.

Looking up Gil sighed, looking at the wrought iron lantern that hung above him moving and creaking as it swung back and forth, the electric light inside of it casting eerie shadows over the bricks surrounding the door. Gritting his teeth, Arroyo tugged his hat down further over his damp hair, wishing his heartbeats were a little less loud and a little slower as they seemed to hammer like bass drums in his ears, his gloved hands shaking as they left his cabby hat’s brim to hang at his sides. 

He hadn’t been back at the Whitly home since that night three months ago, but he still remembered the door, still remembered the awning, and still remembered that deceptive smile Martin Whitly had worn to mask his true intentions as he’d made Gil that fateful cup of tea. Just being back on the stoop made his stomach turn and bile rise up in the back of the man’s throat. 

He swallowed hard and turned back to gaze at his car as it sat out in the rain, parked at the end of the long walk to the house. A part of him wanted to get back in it and head back home, and claim that he hadn’t gotten the message from Jackie, or that he simply hadn’t had the time to stop by. . . Both were lies of course, since Jackie had contacted him the minute Jessica Whitly had called his home phone, and seeing as he had been allowed to leave work early that evening, he had had plenty of time to stop by. 

But Jessica didn’t have to know that, and he didn’t really have to be here again. Still. . . Jackie had said that Mrs. Whitly had sounded desperate on the phone, and given who she had called the Arroyos about, Gil couldn’t help but feel obligated to stop by, after changing out of his police attire, of course. . . luckily he always had a go bag in his trunk. . . 

He turned back to the door and sighed, deciding firmly that he was going to go ahead and go through with this. Reaching out he bypassed the door knocker’s ornate ring and went for the doorbell set in its gold plate to the right of the door, pressing into it firmly before lowering his right arm to hang at his side. 

For minutes that dragged on like hours, the police officer stood on the cold wet stoop until finally the door opened after he heard multiple locks being undone on the other side. 

There stood a slender hispanic woman, her curled hair pulled back in a tight, professional bun with only two strands remaining on either side of her above average face. She wore a black dress with white cuffs on the neck and arms, a white headband, and a white apron, her outfit ending in two comfortable looking and well taken care of black penny loafers. Definitely a modern day take on the classic maid attire. 

“Yes? My name is Louise, how may I assist you?” the woman said in a slightly broken but still relatively fluent way, letting Gil know that while English wasn’t her first language, the woman had adapted well to it enough to be able to wait on and serve others with sufficient communication and skill. 

Although Gil knew that the Whitly’s were bound to have help around their massive house, he couldn’t help but feel a bit odd all the same, not by the maid’s appearance but by the fact that Jessica or the one of the rest of the family hadn’t answered the door. After all, last time Martin had taken it upon himself to do so. . . 

Still, a beautiful maid was far better than a sociopathic narcissist, the man supposed, and he took a step forward, “Err, my name is Detective Gil Arroyo, I’m with the NYPD?” Louise frowned and took a step back, closing the door slightly as her eyes darted skeptically over his attire, “Identification?” Gil glanced down as well, wondering where her skepticism came from before realizing his mistake. He’d introduced himself multiple times in that fashion, but all those times he’d been in his police uniform. Now he was in civilian clothes, like Jackie had suggested he be in for this visit should he choose to go to the Whitly home. 

No wonder the maid was skeptical of him. . . he was sure that multiple reporters had tried impersonating someone of authority to try to get a story from the Whitlys. . . he’d heard of it happening before, anyway, when a wealthy family had a scandal occur within it. Although he wasn’t quite sure if "scandal" was the right term here, he honestly didn’t know what else to call it when a respected member of the elite society had turned out to be a killer who had chosen to take the lives of at least 23 individuals. . .

“Right, sorry about that,” he quickly amended and dug around in a pocket of his coat before pulling out his badge, which he always kept on him, smiling apologetically as he showed her his identification, “I uh. . . I’m here because Mrs. Whitly contacted my home? My wife Jackie, she said Jessica wanted me to come here to talk about her son? Malcolm?” At the mention of the boy’s name Louise’s face fell a little, a sadness overtaking the woman’s eyes. 

“Si. . . pobre nino,” the woman whispered, tears forming at the edges of her eyes as she shook her head, forgetting in her emotional state that as far as she knew Gil couldn’t even understand her. Seeming to remember herself in the next instant, the woman looked up, quickly swiping a hand over the corners of each eye, wiping away her tears before they had a chance to fall and ruin her eyeliner, “Yes, Mrs. Whitly is in the living room. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to her.” Turning, she opened the door the rest of the way, bowing her head a little as she did so.

Gil forced a smile across his face, the woman’s reaction only reaffirming how Jackie had described Jessica on the phone and making his concerns spike uncomfortably.

As he stepped into the house and Louise closed the door quietly behind him he blinked, looking around. Everything seemed pretty much the same as he remembered it, although he did note that the large portrait of Martin, Jessica, and their children-which had been an ornate one that had hung across from a framed mirror in the main foyer area-had been removed, a blank expanse of stucco being all that remained of it. 

Turning his head, he frowned, blinking as he gazed at the main hall of the home. Although he was sure the temperatures of the house were maintained at a comfortable level, the man felt a certain coldness covering the entire dwelling in a thick layer of discomfort, as opposed to the warmth he’d felt the fateful night the NYPD had sent him out to answer Malcolm’s phone call. 

Then, a few lights had been on, in the hall and its adjoining rooms. . . now, he could only see a faint glow coming from the doors of a room that he knew was the living room further down the hall. The home had a sense of emptiness to it that nearly smothered Gil as soon as he walked in. Like any joy had been sucked from it. It made the sounds of Louise locking the door’s numerous locks sound far too loud behind him, like any noise would be unwelcome in the quiet abode. It made a chill go down Gil’s spine and his stomach tightened up a little. He couldn’t imagine how it felt living in this place, or how much of an effect it could have on the family and staff, when he already wanted to turn and walk right back out after only a few seconds. 

As thunder rolled above, a loud clap of it making him jump just slightly, Louise walked around him to stand before him, hands clasped firmly before her, “Detective Arroyo, are you alright?” she said, and he saw in her eyes that although she spoke normally enough, she knew how he was feeling, knew that he sensed the tension and loneliness in the house and that it had him on edge. 

He swallowed hard around the lump that had grown in his throat and nodded, “Yes, I’m fine, thank you for asking. Now, where is Mrs. Whitly?” Louise smiled weakly at him and nodded, “In the living room, please follow me.” turning the woman began to move quietly into the main hall of the house, and Gil immediately followed her without another word. As they neared the living room, Gil noticed the first sign that there was other life in this house apart from him and Louise, and it came in the form of a little face peeking around the polished wooden frame of the doorway to the living room, the large white glass paneled doors having been left open to the room. 

It was from this room that the light had been coming from, and the closer the two had gotten to the room, Gil had been able to tell it was from a fire in the hearth by the way the light was flickering against the glass panels of the doors. He smiled gently at the blonde haired toddler peeking around the door, Ainsley Whitly’s lucious but wild light blonde curls framing her wary but curious face, the little girl’s rosy cheeks shining in the light of the room’s fire.

She wore what appeared to be a red and black checkered dress with a velvet collar and cuffs, and black mary janes over knee high red socks. . . well they would be knee high, if they hadn’t fallen halfway down the little girl’s legs. Gil could also see as he got closer a matching black and red headband in the girl’s locks of hair, trying to add order to them. She bit her lower lip as he got closer, and leaned back a bit more into the room, so that he could only really see one of her eyes and half of her face. The detective smiled what he hoped was a warm comforting smile to the child, who, like most children, was curious but shy about newcomers. Especially at such a young age. 

As Gil got close enough he tilted his head down and forward, leaning down a bit and bending his knees to address the child, “You must be Miss Ainsley, is that right? Your dress is very pretty.” As soon as he had spoken it was like he’d broken whatever spell Ainsley was under, as the blonde haired tot jumped and turning, rushed back into the room and out of sight. Louise smiled sympathetically as Gil turned to her, “I. . . I didn’t want to scare her. . .” Louise shook her head, “You did not. Miss Ainsley has always been a shy child with strangers. But the more she knows you, she opens up. And Mrs. Whitly has set up numerous playdates with different children and their parents to try to teach Miss Ainsley to be more sociable, so she shouldn’t have that issue for much longer.” 

Gil grit his teeth. In his personal mind children should be permitted to grow out of their “shy stage” naturally. . . but he also had a feeling that for the elite where proper interaction with society meant almost everything to them, such a thing seemed less like a stage and more like an affliction.

And he’d in a way seen this sort of behavior from parents before after family tragedy. In an effort to “fix” something or to regain some sense of order in their hectic lives, some parents would turn to a child or a project to focus on relentlessly. He could only assume that Jessica had done that regarding Ainsley’s shy behavior. . . “Louise, is someone there with you? Who is it? I demand to see them at once!” a firm yet slightly slurred female voice called from the room within and Louise, who had paused as she’d spoken to Gil, blinked a few times before seeming to remember her original task, “Yes, of course ma’am!” turning, she walked firmly into the room, standing just inside the doorway as she held her hands still clasped tightly before her, “Detective Gil Arroyo has arrived, Mrs. Whitly. He says that you called on him to stop by?” 

“Oh, why. . . yes. . . I did. . . well then. . .” Jessica said, pausing as she spoke and faltering on her words, a nervousness entering her voice that had never been there before, not even in the interviews the police had put her through regarding Martin’s criminal behavior and any knowledge she may have had regarding such behavior, “Send him in here, will you?” Gil nodded, and stepped forward, not waiting for Louise to address him as he walked around the maid to stand on her left as he pulled his hat slowly off of his head, smiling what he hoped was a comforting smile as he focused on Jessica Whitly. Even in her dark red velvet robe over her dark night gown, her brown curls rolling around her head in waves from her barely made up face, Jessica Whitly’s appearance showed the elegance and beauty of her upbringing as the woman sat up straight on the couch near the fire, her daughter now pressed against her side opposite Gil, the woman’s arm wrapped loosely around her child as she held a tumbler of what he assumed to be some sort of alcohol in her other hand.

A coloring book laid open on the elegant oak coffee table before her, various crayons spread out from their pack beside it from where Ainsley clearly had been coloring as she sat beside her mother on the couch. Jessica had a closed novel of some kind sitting beside her, a silk bookmark tucked in firmly about halfway through it. “Mrs. Whitly, it’s a pleasure to see you this evening. And Miss Ainsley as well,” the man said, nodding to the child as she tucked herself further into her mother’s side, gripping her robe tightly. At that, more thunder clapped above and lightning flashed across the tall windows of the living room, illuminating the entire space and making Ainsley yelp and jump a little, grasping her mother’s robe even tighter. It was as the lightning flashed that something else caught Gil’s eye, a hunched over form sitting curled up and far away from the couch upon which Jessica sat. 

The huddled boy barely registered the lightning, only curling up tighter due to the clap of thunder, his tiny fingers clutching the heavy cover of the book in his hands to the point of his knuckles shining white in the light of the room. Malcolm Whitly’s legs were drawn up to be beneath him in the chair beneath the window, the floor lamp behind him offering just enough light for his eyes to move over the pages of his text. He didn’t so much as look up as Gil’s eyes landed on him, the book’s cover pressed against his knees as he blinked down at it, wearing what appeared to be striped pajamas and a dark blue robe that matched his mother’s own in style.

“Good evening, Detective Arroyo,” Jessica stated, standing up, “I’m pleased that you made the effort to visit our home tonight, in spite of the weather. I do apologize for my daughter’s shyness, she usually isn’t so jumpy around newcomers, but storms, you know, they can have quite the effect on even the most sociable child. . . Ainsley, why don’t you say hello to the nice Detective?” the woman murmured, and Gil only then tore his eyes from Malcolm, who didn’t even seem to acknowledge his mother’s words as he focused almost desperately on the book in his lap, leaning closer to it and bringing his hands up to his chin. There the eleven year old locked them together and pressed his knuckles to his lips as he read the page before him.

Gil had to wonder just what kind of book held the boy’s attention. Treasure Island? Sherlock Holmes perhaps? He had a feeling that in spite of his age Malcolm was intelligent enough to read the adventures of the great detective. Turning to Jessica, trying to stifle his uneasiness regarding Malcolm who seemed to be cut off from the rest of the room, he watched as Ainsley stood up, her left hand still gripping her mother’s robe tightly as her right hand, with the thumb sticking out, was held to her chest. The girl bit her lip and sucked it in between her teeth as she regarded Gil, and he had a feeling that she wanted to instinctively stick her thumb between her lips in her nervousness but had been told multiple times that that was inappropriate.

Jessica’s smile was thin as she forced it for a moment longer, but as Ainsley didn’t speak, she turned, resting a gentle hand on the girl’s head, “Ainsley,” the woman murmured softly, “This isn’t how we treat our guests, is it?” Ainsley popped her lip out again and licked her lips nervously, her eyes meeting Gil’s, and she shook her head at her mother before saying, “S-sorry Detective Arr-Arroy. . .” she frowned hard, clearly trying to recall his name, and Gil smiled weakly at the little girl, who was charming even in her nervousness. She’d definitely inherited that from her parents. “You can call me Gil, Miss Ainsley,” he supplied, moving to kneel down, holding out his hand, “It’s a pleasure to meet you!” Ainsley smiled a shaky smile at him and walked forward, letting go of her mother’s robes as she got to the point where she could no longer move forward and still grasp them, and finally stood before the Detective, “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Gil.” she said in the sweetest voice Gil swore he’d ever heard. 

He couldn’t help but smile more at the adorable child, even more so as she put her hand that had been near her chest out and into his, shaking it, “My name is Ainsley Whitly.” “MISS Ainsley Whitly,” Jessica said, sighing as she folded her arms, but couldn’t help but smile at her daughter’s ability to finally properly greet the detective, “But that is close enough I suppose.” Gil smiled and leaned forward, “Well, MISS Ainsley Whitly, I have to say I’m shocked there isn’t the word PRINCESS in front of your name, because you are without a doubt pretty as a princess. Which one’s your favorite?” 

Ainsley grinned at that, clearly at the stage where princesses were everything to a girl, “Rapunzel! I want to have hair as beautiful as hers one day!” Gil chuckled and winked, leaning forward and kissing her hand, “Well, Princess Ainsley. . .” he leaned back and smiled at her, “I think your hair already has hers beat.” Ainsley giggled and bounced on the balls of her feet, and Jessica chuckled a little in spite of clearly trying to keep things professional before the woman glanced at Malcolm, biting her lip a little. Even though the boy still hadn’t moved, his presence seemed to radiate a dark, sad aura to the rest of the room. Turning to Louise, the woman grit her teeth before murmuring gently as Malcolm reached out, one hand remaining curled near his lips as the other turned the page, the boy blinking wordlessly as he began to read the next paragraph of his text. “Louise, could you please take Miss Ainsley to her room? Draw her a bath, get her dressed for bed, get her some warm milk, and read her a story, will you? Her Rapunzel story, perhaps?” the woman said quietly. 

Ainsley pouted, frowning at her mother, “But I want to spend some more time with Mr. Gil, mother!” she whined. Jessica frowned disapprovingly at her daughter, “Now Ainsley, what have I told you over and over about whining?” she said, a tinge of coldness in her voice as her hand tightened around the tumbler a little. Ainsley sighed, nodding as she repeated what Jessica had told her multiple times, “True ladies don’t whine. Even little ones. . .” Jessica smiled a little, some of her coldness fading as her daughter recited the words, and nodded, “That’s right. Now, you will perhaps be able to see Mr. Gil at a later time, one that isn’t so close to your bed time. So, say goodnight to him and follow Louise.” Ainsley nodded and turned back to Gil, “Next time can you and I color? Or play with my dollies?” the blonde said, her eyes taking on that hopeful, innocent look that only a child could have, and Gil couldn’t help but smile and nod, squeezing her hand gently. “I’ll be looking forward to it, Princess Ainsley.” Ainsley beamed at him, and nodded firmly, “Then goodnight Mr. Gil!” Turning to Jessica, pulling her hand free from Gil’s grasp, she grinned at the woman, “Goodnight Mother!” with that the girl turned to the maid and grasping Louise’s outstretched hand, skipped with her out of the room and towards the stairs that no doubt led to the child’s room. 

Gil smiled, watching her go, before turning to Jessica, slowly standing up, “You’ve got a precious daughter there.” Jessica nodded, smiling weakly as she brought her tumbler to her lips, drinking deeply from it before pulling the glass away only to hold it just below her chin, her fingers turning the glass quickly as she gazed at the carpet, “She-she definitely is. . .” Turning she sighed, frowning at her son who still hadn’t so much as acknowledged anyone else in the room, “Both of my children are, in truth. . .” 

As the woman watched her despondent son, Gil chanced a glance around the room, noting that any photos that he’d seen before with Martin in them had been removed,with decorative vases, candles, or artwork having replaced them. “Can I get you something?” Jessica said, quickly turning her head and locking her eyes back on Gil, who frowned, turning to her. The woman smile, shrugging, “Water, Tea, Coffee? Something a little stronger perhaps?” she waved a hand about the room, “Pick any chair you’d like, Detective. I truly am grateful that you were willing to stop by, and will certainly try to make this visit as brief as possible.” Gil didn’t miss how the woman’s eyes, though she forced them to focus on him, kept darting over to Malcolm, clearly nervous about what she was about to speak to GIl about. That was obviously the reason why she’d sent Ainsley to bed. . . With the absence of the girl though, the true coldness of the house set back in, hovering over the room ominously. 

Gil forced himself to smile, nodding, “Coffee, please. Black.” He knew Jessica probably needed something to do, to take the edge off in a way alcohol clearly wasn’t able to. As the woman smiled and nodded, putting her tumbler down shakily on the coffee table, making the glass rattle against its coaster as she did so before turning and marching to a small bar area and starting up the small coffee pot once she got there, her red robe billowing about her as she assured Gil it wouldn’t take any time at all to fix the Detective his drink, Gil turned and walking over, sat down on the edge of the couch after easing out of his trenchcoat and folding it up to place it on the furniture beside him. Quietly he put his hat on top of the folded up coat, glancing at the princess coloring book that was still out on the table. 

Leaning forward he began to pick up the crayons Ainsley had left strewn about and put them one by one in the box. It was then that he felt eyes on him, and glancing up, he looked directly to Malcolm, since Jessica’s back was turned to him as she made his coffee, the machine sputtering as it pumped hot water through the grounds and filter that had been placed in the device. 

“I do love the smell of fresh ground coffee, don’t you, Detective?” Jessica was saying as she waited for the machine to deposit all of its coffee into the glass pot that sat within it, the woman grasping a black coffee cup before turning around and wiping it down with a wet cloth as she focused on him, “I always purchase only the finest Columbian beans and have Louise grind up some fresh each morning to ensu-” She paused, frowning at Gil who was watching Malcolm now with rapt attention. After all, when he’d looked up,he’d seen the boy looking at him with an empty, emotionless gaze. 

When he had looked at the boy Malcolm had quickly diverted his gaze, reaching out and with the hand that had turned his book’s page grasped the top of its spine firmly before pulling the text closer, leaning more towards the page as he continued to read. “Right,” Jessica said, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out with a shuddering heave of her chest, “Malcolm, dear, we have a guest. Please close your book and go sit beside Detective Arroyo now. Mommy will be over in a second.” Malcolm visibly bit his lip and leaned closer to his book, and Gil saw the trembling of his body as he gripped the literature tighter. 

“Malcolm,” Jessica said slowly, frowning at her son, and Gil saw the faintest arching of Malcolm’s eyebrows, like he was trying to concentrate but failing to do so, “I said I want you to close that book and go sit beside Detective Arroyo NOW. You know your manners, dear, even if you don’t always show them, and I expect to be obeyed. Now, do I need to ask you a third time or are you going to behave for me?” Although the woman’s words were demanding, she didn’t really enter into the tone she’d used with Ainsley before, her voice having a gentleness to it like one would use when trying to coax a frightened animal out of hiding.

Still, Malcolm visibly flinched as if his mother had shouted at him, and licking his lips nervously, slowly closed the book, sliding a thin bookmark in between the pages he’d been on before slowly moving over to face Gil, his bare feet sliding down as he unfolded his legs to rest them on the floor, the book still in his lap as the boy blinked down at it, shaking a little as his hands grasped the top of the front cover in an iron grip. “Good boy,” Jessica said, sighing as she slumped her shoulders, “Now, go sit beside Detective Arroyo. You remember him, don’t you?” 

Without even looking up at Gil, Malcolm nodded his head, biting the inside of his cheek as he did so. With that he slowly stood up and walked quietly across the room, and Gil stood up, ready to say hello to Malcolm as he rounded the end of the coffee table, holding out a hand towards the boy for him to take once he got within reach. “Hello, Malcolm, it’s been a while hasn’t it?” he murmured softly, “It’s good to see you again, what are you re-” he stared, as Malcolm sat abruptly in the armchair set at that end of the coffee table, biting his lip and twitching his fingers against the book, glancing nervously at his mother as if worried she’d rebuke him for not doing precisely as asked. “-ading,” Gil finished, frowning at the child as the boy seemed to try to make himself seem smaller in the chair, tucking his arms tightly to his sides.

Jessica heaved a deep sigh and turned as the machine finished pouring its coffee into the pot, “Well, that’s good enough, I suppose. . .” With that the woman quickly poured some coffee into the black mug and turning, walked quickly over, holding the steaming mug over the coffee table for Gil, who blinked, turning and taking it, “Thank you, Mrs. Whitly.” With that he brought the mug to his lips and blowing gently on it, took a sip before sitting on the couch again, eyes moving back to the brunette boy sitting in the chair, the kid’s eyes only focused on the brown leather of the book in his hands.

Jessica shifted from foot to foot, glancing between the two of them before walking over and sitting on the arm of the chair. Slowly, as if worried she’d startle him, the mother reached out, moving her fingers over and through Malcolm’s hair as she stroked her child’s head in much of the same way she’d done with Ainsley when her daughter had been nervous about meeting Gil. She needn’t have worried, apparently, as Malcolm merely twitched a little at his mother’s touch, not moving away at all. Thunder rolled once more and lightning flashed outside the window, but the woman’s eyes didn’t leave her son, a sad sympathy along with confusion swirling in her gaze, “Sweetheart, Detective Arroyo asked you what you were reading, why don’t you tell him?” 

Malcolm bit his lip but didn’t look up. Rather than speak, the boy quietly turned his arms, sliding his hands to the sides of the book to show the cover to Gil. Gil grit his teeth. It wasn’t a book of fiction at all, but rather a medical text written by Dr. Martin Whitly a few years before. Turning his gaze to Jessica, Gil stared at the tears forming in the edges of the woman’s eyes. Turning to him, her face crumpled, the tears racing down her cheeks, “This is what I contacted you about, Detective. I . . . I just don’t know what to do anymore,” she whispered. Malcolm quickly turned the book around to face up and leaned forward and over it, head only a few inches from his knees as Jessica moved her hand to her chest, clutching at her robe over her heart tightly as she waved her hand about, “He eats, he goes to school, he makes good grades, he bathes, he sleeps, he does everything that you tell him to do! Well. . . mostly. . . But he won’t speak! My son hasn’t spoken a word in two months! And I don’t know any way to help him! We’ve tried therapy, playdates, everything! I’m sorry to disturb you with this, but I just. . . I don’t know who else to turn to! Please, help me! Help Malcolm!”

Gil couldn’t help but stare at the boy as the normally well composed woman spoke so frantically. He couldn’t believe that Malcolm Whitly had gone so long without speaking. It was in that moment that the boy’s eyes moved up just slightly, and Gil stared into those haunted hollow eyes. There was still that shell of apathy over them, but he swore he saw what was beneath it in that moment, if only for a second before Malcolm closed his eyes and bowed his head again as the 11 year old gnawed on his bottom lip, hands visibly trembling as they grasped desperately at the medical text he held within them. In that moment, the Detective had seen despair, guilt, frustration, and only the deepest sorrow plaguing the boy’s soul.~

Gil grit his teeth, blinking rapidly and shaking his head a little to try to shake the memory from his mind, feeling the moistness in the corners of his eyes. After all, that memory alone triggered his thoughts about how fragile Malcolm’s psyche truly could be, and as a result tapped into how fiercely protective Gil was over the kid, making the fact that he couldn’t protect the boy now from Paul Lazar even more upsetting.

Even though Jessica had begged her son to at least talk to the Detective,Malcolm still hadn’t spoken to Gil that night, no matter how many questions Gil had asked regarding the boy’s schooling or what he liked to do with his free time. There had been multiple moments when Malcolm’s lips had twitched a little, but still no words had come out of them, his fingers tightening a little around the book he held each time, gazing down at the leather cover of the text intently. 

Seeing that the questions about Malcolm weren’t getting him anywhere, Gil had resolved to switch things up, and had talked about his own life and the puppy he and Jackie had just brought home. The boy’s lips had twitched a little at the mention of the dog, like he was about to smile, before they had returning to an impassive line again. Gil had thought that meant the dog was a way to get the boy to open up more, but even when he had asked if Malcolm would ever want to see the dog, the boy had only moved his eyes back to his lap and bit the inside of his cheek. It had pained Gil to see a child suffering from a level of emotional trauma that would seem rare even in adults. 

He had honestly felt like he was talking to a statue, or perhaps a ghost, as he’d sat in the living room of the Whitly home. Finally Jessica, who had been reading her own book, or at least pretending to read it in the armchair at the end of the coffee table opposite Malcolm had sighed and said that that was enough and had sent Malcolm to bed. Malcolm had obediently risen quietly to do as his mother bid but just before he had left the room, Gil had stood and said that it had been nice to spend time with him. 

Gil could remember now how Malcolm had turned and blinked at the man, surprised at what he’d said, a questioning look on the boy’s face. Then, slowly, those lips had twitched up in a weird sort of smile and Malcolm had nodded, before turning with a frown and walking out of the living room, clutching his book tightly to his chest. That had been enough to encourage Gil to visit the Whitly home each week for the following month, playing often with Ainsley but mostly trying to interact with who his colleagues quickly dubbed “that Whitly kid”.

Sometimes the two would sit in the living room and read books Gil would ask Malcolm to bring down from his room, for lack of anything else to do since the Detective did not want to ask questions the whole time and risk pressuring Malcolm too much into speaking. After all, if therapy and his mother’s insistence hadn’t worked to get the boy to open up that way, Gil had felt that more pressure would only make his voluntary mutism worsen. Although Gil had still tried to instigate Malcolm to say something subtly in their visits, sometimes by reading a sentence wrong or adding one in, he had never outright demanded the kid to say anything at all. And, in turn, Malcolm had always remained silent but attentive.

Once Malcolm had seemed more used to the Detective, Gil had decided to take a bigger step away from the common area of the living room and had asked if Malcolm could show him around the boy’s bedroom, a part of the Detective hoping that Malcolm might speak to describe certain things. Malcolm had seemed a bit hesitant, and Gil had almost withdrawn his request at the time, but then the boy had nodded and silently taken the man’s hand to lead him to the requested room, proceeding to show Gil every single item in it. But, even though the two would sometimes play with Malcolm’s meager amount of toys-the boy certainly wasn’t like other children, Gil had noted upon entering the room, as his room looked more like that of an academics obsessed high schooler than an 11 year old boy-Malcolm had remained silent.

Once the weather had cleared up, their interactions had transitioned into Gil playing board games outside with Malcolm beneath the trees in the small Whitly backyard. On some days Gil would bring his german shepherd puppy over for the boy to play fetch with, since the boy always had seemed a little more interested whenever he would mention the dog in conversation.

Once Gil felt Malcolm was ready for some interaction where people would be around the two, he had begun to include some day trips in the time spent with Malcolm, taking the boy to the park on sunny days to feed ducks or to the zoo and aquarium. In regards to the latter two locations, Gil had always come equipped with books the man would gift to Malcolm after the trips that had bountiful amounts of knowledge about the animals the boy and he would see, since it was clear the boy enjoyed reading. 

Over the months of spending his time off with the young Malcolm Bright, Gil had felt a weird sort of friendship forming between the two. The two were radically different age wise, but Gil gradually enjoyed spending time with what Jessica had jokingly come to call his little shadow- since the minute Gil would be in the room Malcolm would head straight to him, blinking expectantly up at the man who had in a way turned into his personal playmate. 

Over time, Gil had transitioned from a guardian figure to a mentor for Malcolm, but that protectiveness and concen he’d garnered for Malcolm during those months had always remained within him. And he knew that Jessica Whitly had placed her trust in him regarding Malcolm’s safety because of that. Now, the woman was gazing at him with slight concern on her face, Dani having walked up and helped her into the vest as Gil had paused in doing so. “Gil? Gil are you alright?” Jessica whispered, staring at the Lieutenant.

Gil blinked and shook his head firmly again to refocus. Now was not the time to dwell on the past or his own emotions, he told himself. It was time to find Malcolm. “I’m fine, Jessica,” the man said after taking in a deep breath, trying to give her a reassuring smile, “And we’ll get him back, I promise. Now let’s go find your boy.” Jessica frowned, clearly knowing that Gil was NOT fine, but also knowing that urgency was needed now in order to find her son, so she nodded, “Right,” she remarked firmly, putting her hands on her hips, and Gil couldn’t help but notice how even Jessica Whitly could pull off a bulky vest, “After you, Lt. Arroyo,” she held out a hand firmly towards the door, “I’ll have Adolfo bring the car around and we can go straight to this Careview place.”

Gil turned on his heel and marched towards the door, tugging his coat tighter around himself,“It’s Clearview, and we’re not taking your car or mine. Get ready to walk in those heels of yours, Mrs. Whitly,” the man stated firmly, not even looking back as he opened the door and held it until he felt Jessica or Powell put pressure on it to keep it open. Once he knew they were holding it open, he went down the outside stairs quickly, trying to not see in his mind’s eye Malcolm sitting on the stoop there. 

“And why would I have to do that?” Jessica said as if offended, “We have plenty of room in. . .” “Because it’ll take too much time that we don’t have to make it through this traffic,” Gil said, motioning to the vehicles moving quickly along the road in both directions, “Clearview is just a block or two away, it’ll be much faster not having to deal with traffic to just walk there. So that’s what Malcolm needs from us right now, understood? Besides, we both have cars that are too distinctive and I’m sure if Lazar has been watching all of us as much as I think he has, he’ll be able to recognize both of our vehicles a mile away.” with that he came to stand right where Malcolm had stood before crossing the street and going after Paul, and sighed, turning to look at Jessica and Dani as they followed him, making their way quickly down the stairs themselves, “And he’s made it clear that he’ll murder your son if he feels too much pressure from us or gets tipped off that we’re following him. I KNOW you don’t want that to happen.”   
He clenched his fists tighter as he turned and marched towards the end of the block, where the crosswalk was, and began to tap repeatedly against the button to let the transportation system know it needed to allow them to move across to the other side of the street. He COULD always flash his badge to get across traffic if he wanted, since most people would stop for a policeman, but that would be about as obvious to someone like Paul as if he were in full police uniform. He couldn’t let something so silly be the reason Paul hurt Bright. Jessica sighed as she walked up beside him, crossing her arms.

From what Gil could tell Powell had convinced the woman to put on someone at the station’s dark windbreaker jacket that was easily two sizes too big for her. He guessed it was to hide the bullet proof vest, and smiled a little at Dani to let her know he was grateful for her quick thinking. “Well of course I don’t want that to happen,” Jessica huffed, pulling her curls out of the windbreaker’s collar and looking around, frowning as she tapped a foot impatiently, “Why would Paul Lazar murder Malcolm though if he clearly wants him alive? I mean, I don’t like the idea of this killer of yours having my son at all, but it would seem to me that if he has gone through the trouble to capture Malcolm, he wants to . . . spend time with him? If that’s a normal way of putting it?” Jessica remarked firmly.

“He does want to spend time with Bright, you are right about that,” Gil confirmed, “But Paul Lazar is a sadistic sociopath, as well, and loves punishing people for perceived wrongs. If there is one thing he wants more than anything, it is to continue to be free and able to keep killing. He may want Malcolm alive and with him, but if the fact that he has to travel with Malcolm becomes a liability in his mind, well. . .” Jessica frowned, tightening her jawline and nodding, “It’s like finances. . . If you make a bad investment you . . .” her voice broke at that, and Gil grit his teeth, seeing a tear race down the normally so well put together woman’s face. She drew in a deep breath, sniffing as she moved a hand up quickly, using the cuff of the windbreaker to wipe the moisture away, “You cut your losses and move forward.”

With that the mother turned and gazed at Gil, fear and worry in her eyes, “Gil, please tell me we’ll find my baby boy alive.” Gil grit his teeth. He wanted to tell Jessica that, and hoped as much if not more than the woman that he could do just that. . . but he’d seen what Paul Lazar was capable of, and he had a bad feeling that the killer specifically despised Malcolm already. . . the way he’d sounded on the phone had all but confirmed that. Jessica’s eyes turned panicked and she reached out, grasping Gil’s arm in a tight, shaking hand, “Gil Arroyo, you will save my son. Please tell me you will save my son.”

Gil swallowed hard, and reaching out, pressed that infernal button once more, “I . . . We’ll use all of our resources to find Paul Lazar, Jessica,” the man whispered hoarsely, “And Malcolm, he’s smart. REALLY smart. He gets that from you and Martin. He has the resourcefulness to make it out of this alive as long as he focuses.”

Jessica jerked a little on his arm her voice heightening in her worry, “That’s not the answer I need right now, Lt. Arroyo. Tell me my boy will be ok. Please,” she sobbed the last word, and Gil felt his heart sag. Licking his lips, he opened his mouth, wanting to give her an answer that he would try to make come true. . . He was cut off as Dani pointed ahead of them, “Gil, we uh. . . we can walk. . .” the woman whispered. 

Gil turned, blinking as the crosswalk sign switched from the red hand to the white pedestrian, and he nodded, “Right, let’s. . .” he had just stepped quickly off of the curb, when a white van roared by, nearly striking him down as it defied the stop light and revved past, honking at him as if he had been the one at fault. He jumped back, staring after it, something written on the side of the vehicle along with a picture of a bread loaf and what appeared to be a fish. 

“OH DEAR GOD!” Jessica gasped, staring after the van, her hand shaking but still grasping Gil’s jacket as she’d actually yanked back on him when the van had passed, instinctively wanting to pull him out of the way,“WHAT THE HELL WERE THEY THINKING?!” “They’re a driver in New York obsessed with getting to their next delivery stop on time,” Dani muttered, shaking her head and running a hand through her hair, trying to clamp down on the fear she’d felt for her boss, “They weren’t thinking anything.”

“Well be sure to get their license plate number or something. You DO have cameras here for that, do you not?” Jessica muttered with a huff, drawing her coat around herself and pulling herself to full height as she proceeded to march firmly across the crosswalk, disgruntled, “They could have KILLED someone doing that. . . They should be locked away, or at least forced through a dozen driving courses until they get their driving habits corrected.” At that Gil and Dani exchanged a look. Clearly the woman had never had to truly cope with New York traffic before. . . still, the two walked firmly across the street after the haughty woman, her purse still swinging at her side as she marched onto the sidewalk, going on and on about the indecencies of New York drivers when they would so willingly disobey blatant traffic laws and regulations. 

“. . . AND WILL YOU TWO HURRY UP?!” Jessica’s shrill voice shouted from the sidewalk, making Gil and Dani look up to the woman tapping her shoe against the concrete, frowning at them with her arms crossed, “WE DO HAVE A KILLER TO CATCH AND A SON TO BRING HOME!” she snapped, impatience having replaced the fear in her features.

Gil sighed, and picked up the pace. Well, at least Jessica wasn’t on the verge of tears, although he was certain that if they didn’t find Malcolm right away the woman would have plenty of emotional meltdowns in the coming days. . . Honestly, compared to that, the woman bossing them around and acting her own odd version of “normal” was comforting for the older man. “We’re coming Jessica, don’t worry,” he said, finally stepping onto the other sidewalk and marching past the woman, taking the lead once again and looking over his shoulder to smile at her, “And we’ll find him. We’re getting closer to him by the minute, trust me.”

Turning he walked on, glancing over as the white van moved quickly in and out of lanes as it made its way further from them. And frowned, feeling an odd sense that something was out of place. Shaking his head, closing his eyes, the man turned his head back around, walking onward. It was his nerves, obviously, from almost getting run over and from Bright getting captured. Once he got to Clearview and got a better idea of how to capture Paul and bring Malcolm home safely, he’d feel better. They all would. And then he’d make sure Bright never did something stupid like this EVER again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, what did you all think? Honestly, this chapter only got about halfway along in the story than I had originally intended, SO, instead of the next chapter being about Malcolm and Paul, which would keep in line with the story's current pattern. . . the next chapter will definitely be a continuation of Gil getting to Clearview and seeing just how Malcolm was kidnapped. Sure to be an emotional one, and, you know, Edrisa is going to have to be filled in on just whose blood she's going to see in the service hallway. . . that will sure to be a depressing discovery. Buuuuuut, I hope you will enjoy that and that you have enjoyed this past chapter! Please let me know your thoughts below!


	7. Stuck In The Closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Gil tries to figure out what happened in the service tunnel, Malcolm awakens to find himself very naked and very alone in a very dark place. Whatever will happen next?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Let me start off by saying that I hope you are all well in the midst of this COVID Pandemic our country currently finds itself in! I hope you all are engaging in safe practices, maintaining social distancing, and of course staying home if it is at all possible! I was actually anticipating getting this chapter out a lot sooner because of this Pandemic, but of course. . . I have to work through it when I had thought I would be told to stay home by my job in the first week. . . and, well, the entire structure to this chapter changed radically about halfway through writing it. For the better, of course, but still, reworking the chapter and as a result remapping certain parts of this story in my mind so that it will continue to run smoothly for you amazing readers has taken some time! Again, I do apologize for the late update, hope you all enjoy it, and hope you are all well!

Malcolm jolted awake, eyes flying open as he stared at. . . nothing. He blinked, his eyes gazing at the total and complete darkness surrounding him, able to tell that he had nothing against them, no blindfold to block his view. In fact, he realized, nothing was against him at all. He shivered, as the cold, dry air that surrounded him pressed against his skin, having been stripped of even his boxer shorts while he was passed out. He’d lost consciousness before Paul had even made his “first stop” back in the van. It had been something out of his control and couldn’t help but do with how exhausted and hurt he’d been, but now he wished he could have stayed awake back then, if only for the advantage to be able to know where he was right now. 

He gulped hard, noting that his throat was dry and his tongue felt swollen inside of his mouth as he turned his head, blinking into the void surrounding him, his hands trembling up above him where the handcuffs held them up and away from his body, forcing him to stand in whatever place he was at. Gritting his teeth, he wrapped his fingers around the chains of the cuffs and held on tightly, trying to give them something to do other than shake. It had been an exercise Dr. Gabrielle had taught him. Only then it had been a matter of getting Malcolm to grab and hold onto a stress ball to help him focus and neutralize that particular symptom of his anxiety. Gritting his teeth and tilting his head back, he cleared his throat, “H-Hello?” he called, his whole body throbbing. He knew he couldn’t just keep standing here in the dark after all. He needed to contact someone, anyone, who might be nearby. To figure out at least something about what was going on.

He paused, waiting for a response as he bit his lip, feeling the cracked skin there split beneath his teeth, the coppery taste of his blood trickling into his mouth. The wound in his side pulsed as the seconds ticked by with no response and he turned his head to the other side, shifting his weight, feeling a cold slate of metal beneath his split feet, the cold surface seeming to sear against his knife wounds there. The metal creaked beneath his toes as he shifted and the platform the cuffs forced him to stand on moved. Raising his voice a little more, he decided to try to call out for someone again. Maybe it would make Paul come back. . . or maybe, if someone else could hear him, it would garner their attention and help him get out of this mess. 

He doubted the latter would happen, since Paul/John seemed too smart to let that happen, but still, he had to hold out hope . . . Sometimes with victims who had survived the killers he’d hunted down, hope would be a torch they’d light and hold up in the darkness. It could be a way for them to mentally make it through what was happening to them so that they could physically survive their ordeals. So he had to hope, either that someone helpful would hear him or-if it was Paul who came at his call- that he could talk the man into letting him out of the void he had currently been placed in. “H-Hello?!” he called out a little louder, wincing as his throat, feeling raw, twitched against the irritation that using his voice caused it. 

Malcolm’s heartbeat quickened, hammering in his chest as he tried to wait for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and to see if anyone had heard him shouting in the dark. The minutes ticked by like hours, with panic gradually settling within him when no one came, not even his captor. What was worse, his eyesight never did adjust to the space around him, making him realize that his initial examination of his situation was all too correct . . . he had without a doubt been left in true darkness. 

After all, most of the time when people claimed they had adjusted to seeing in the dark, they had actually required a small amount of light that might not have been quite so visible to them before, but that had always been there nonetheless.Normally the human eye would finally pick up on that light and focus on it, using it to better highlight the aspects of the darkness in a way that was more productive than before, letting the person believe that they were suddenly able to see. Malcolm shook his head with a sigh, realizing that he was mentally reciting something a Biopsychology professor had spoken about in a class at Harvard. “Not the time to remember textbook facts, Bright,” he muttered to himself, hanging his head and letting out a shuddering sigh, “Instead, it’s time to put that fucking brain of yours to work to try to figure out how to get the fuck out of here, before something even worse happens. . .”

Tilting his head up, Malcolm gave the handcuffs a few test yanks, finding them still immovable. Well, he had to try, he told himself. Sighing, he blinked, glancing around one more time for a source of light he knew wasn’t there, trying to blink some wetness to his itchy, scratchy eyes. Why the hell was it so dry here, anyway? Licking his bloody lip, he decided to call out yet again, full on yelling this time. “HELLO?! IS ANYONE OUT THERE?!” he shouted, his shaking hands jerking on his chains as he stared at the darkness, turning his head, straining his ears to hear anything at all that might let him know someone was listening, that someone had heard him. He cursed in frustration as he heard nothing, and threw his head back, forcing his hoarse voice to go as loud as it could, tears leaking down from the cracks of his eyelids, “PAUL, ARE YOU OUT THERE?! PAUL CAN YOU HEAR ME?!” 

The minutes ticked by and still Malcolm heard no response. His breaths grew shorter and shorter as his lungs began to struggle to take in the dry air around him. As the precious, small amount of oxygen he inhaled seared his windpipe, Malcolm suddenly realized that there seemed to be even less of it for him to breath in. That was when he felt the edges of desperation closing in on him. Before he’d sensed them there, but just barely. Now they threatened to swallow him whole as a horrifying thought crossed his mind. . .

What if he was actually buried, vertically, in a large wooden chest somewhere? 6 feet under,in a big crate? Paul had buried an entire camper at his junkyard, it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch of the imagination, would it? Malcolm gulped, shaking his head hoping to whatever god was out there that he hadn’t been abandoned somewhere to die. Surely Paul wanted him for more than that?!

Shutting his eyes tight, Malcolm mustered all the strength he had. . .“PAUL! PAUL PLEASE ANSWER ME! I JUST WANT TO TALK! PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOU’RE THERE!” he screamed out, the desperation palpable in his voice. He shook the chains above him, making them rattle, wanting to yank them out of wherever they were anchored at. He couldn’t hold back his whine when they didn’t release him. It felt like the darkness was closing in on him, threatening to suffocate him, forming a hand around his neck that only continued to tighten its hold. For a second he thought he could hear something thumping just a few feet away. . . he sobbed as he realized it was just his own heart, hammering away in his panic. He knew he shouldn’t let panic affect him like this, but in that moment, he found he couldn’t help himself. 

“Fear. . . has always been your particular stumbling block”. Malcolm grit his teeth tightly together as his father’s words came back to him in his moment where they were slowly becoming mroe and more true. He felt the tears streaking down his dry, bloody cheeks, and he jerked on the chains, making them rattle as he stomped loudly on the chair in frustration, screaming at the pain it caused, trying to make some noise to get the killer’s attention, praying to whatever god was out there that he would hear him and at least fucking talk to him, or let him know what was happening. Praying that he wasn’t truly all alone like he feared. “PAUL, BILL, JOHN, WHOEVER YOU ARE! PLEASE JUST FUCKING TALK TO ME! WHERE AM I?! WHY AM I HERE? WHAT DO YOU FUCKING WANT FROM ME HERE?!” Malcolm wailed, leaning forward and wheezing as he struggled to breathe at the end of his rant, eyes shut tight as he wept.

At that moment a blinding light suddenly turned on right above him and Malcolm cried out, jumping and almost falling off of the metal chair that had been shoved up beneath him. He gasped, his surprise at the sudden brightness in the small space cut short as the cuffs around his wrists dug tightly into him. Glancing up, he panted, seeing that they were held tightly by a hook driven deep into the dirty, cigarette smoke stained popcorn ceiling above him. At that moment one of his damaged feet slipped off of the chair, having moved to the edge of it when he’d jumped. He grunted, feeling the metal of the cuffs cut into him to the point of drawing blood as his other foot threatened to follow the first, the chair shifting and sliding almost entirely out from beneath him across a dark burgundy carpet that looked like it should have been replaced more than a decade prior. Grunting, he refocused his attention on his feet, his current position threatening to leave him dangling in mid air.

Malcolm gulped hard, wrapping his fingers even more around the chains, panicked eyes focused solely on his feet, watching as his legs frantically struggled to get them back on top of the rusty metal chair that had been underneath him moments before. For a few seconds he struggled until he managed to get both feet back on the chair beneath him, the by now bleeding soles of them pressing against the old metal. He grit his teeth, the ends of his limbs stinging at the pain that action caused as blood oozed forth and slid beneath his toes and heels. 

Gritting his teeth, fearing he would be unable to stop that bleeding and still remain on the chair, Malcolm sighed, hanging his head. In the next instant he forced his gaze up from his bleeding feet and stared, horrified, at what was now revealed before him with his own reflection gazing, horrified and beaten, back at him. Bruises on top of bruises by now covered Malcolm’s face and body, his face and various points of said body swollen in a way that was a far cry from his usually handsome facade. 

Blood had by now spilled and dried from the cuts on his face and head. It now sat dark red against his pale skin, caked to his cheeks and forehead with some of it hugging the sides of his neck and tracing long dark red tendrils along the top of his collarbone and pectorals. His hair was a mess compared to his usual well groomed look and layered with blood,dirt, and grime. His eyes were sunken in and tired looking, with dark circles around them, not just because of the ordeal he’d been through since following Paul but because of his recent parade of sleepless nights spent tossing and turning in his bed. 

Malcolm forced himself to look away from his haunted eyes, traveling his gaze down the rest of his sagging, shivering body. His chest heaved with each breath, some of his ribs notably looking disjointed and disfigured from being broken and bruised in the past 24 hours. It was sickening to see, and the fact that Malcolm rarely ate anything at all only further highlighted their condition, with no real fat clinging to his bones to hide the injuries. Malcolm gulped hard, watching as his skin twitched around the blood covered wound in his abdomen. 

Dried, dark blood like that which was on his face could be seen pressing against the pale skin of his stomach, letting him know that the wound had gradually sealed itself up before. But due to the way he was being forced to stand in the chair, he could see that the skin had been forced to stretch in the recent half hour or so, reopening the wound and letting fresh blood slowly ooze out from it. From there, the precious liquid trailed down his side and over his thigh before sliding down his leg, the red fluid splitting at the knee into two thin rivers that slid down and traced the sides of his calves before joining the blood already pooling at his feet. The blood trickling from the cuffs digging into his wrists was doing pretty much the same thing, sliding down his arms in gentle rivers, then going over his shoulders, beneath his armpits, and on down his sides. 

Malcolm grit his teeth at the macabre portrait he made in the long floor to ceiling mirror, and forced his gaze away from himself to take in the rest of the small space. It appeared to be nothing more than a narrow closet, probably one that would have normally been used for coats or brooms, with a small vent set up on the wall behind him, close to the popcorn ceiling. The rusty old vent no longer rattled with air flow so he guessed that would explain the lack of oxygen from before, he supposed, along with the stale, dry feeling the air left him with. Nothing else was set into the narrow wood paneled walls, however, apart from the door that the mirror was affixed to. From what he could tell the door might have a knob on the outside but there was no presence of one on the inside, making it clear that whoever was placed in here wasn’t to be released from this cell until it pleased the wishes of their captor. There were black rubber guards, Malcolm noted, affixed to the bottom and top of the door, pressing into the burgundy carpet below and against the popcorn ceiling above him. That would explain the lack of light, he guessed. . .

“Like your new accomodations, Little Malcolm?” John’s voice rattled behind him, and Malcolm whipped his head around, staring at the vent set above his head, blinking at it. The only place the man’s voice could have come from. “Ch-Charming,” he whispered hoarsely, blinking at it, “Did you set up all of this just for me? You really shouldn’t have if you did. . .” He received a dark chuckle from the vent, “Don’t think of yourself as so special, boy.” the killer purred, “This room was fixed up to hold the scum of the earth in it long before you were sucking on that goddamn silver spoon your mother gave you before shitting in your fancy cloth diapers.” Malcolm grit his teeth and shook his head, trying to build some rapport with the man at the very least, “Mom never let us touch the silver I’m afraid, not when we were that little. Didn’t want us to mess it up. And both my parents used Pampers on me and Ainsley, just like everyone else.”

John’s dark laugh rolled out of the vent, and Malcolm found that it made his entire spine shiver, “Oh, a comedian, are we? Thinking that making me laugh will get you out of this shit?” Malcolm grit his teeth and shook his head, “You and I both know that the only way I’m getting out of here is if you let me out, Paul. You have all the power here. You and I both know that. . .” He had used the term “John” with the man before, but he had a feeling that if he used the name the man had chosen to introduce himself to Malcolm with, maybe that would lead to him easing up on Malcolm in the near future. All Malcolm needed was for him to do that just a little bit. Then maybe he could figure the man out, and work on a plan for escape. “Yes, you do, don’t you, Little Malcolm. Because you’ve been in one of my special little rooms before, haven’t ya?” John’s voice growled. Malcolm stared at the vent, his mouth hanging open. Of all the things he’d thought John might say, he hadn’t been expecting something like that.

After he stood there, staring at the vent for a few moments in silence, John growled a little before saying in a light tone, “What, suddenly the talkative Profiler doesn’t want to say anything to me? Maybe I should gag you again, then, if you would rather stay silent.” Malcolm bit his lip and shook his head, clenching his fingers to prevent them from shaking so much, “N-no sir, it’s not like that. . . It’s just. . . I just don’t know what you’re talking about,” he whispered hoarsely even as his mind whirred. Had he actually been here before? Or somewhere like this? Was John talking about one of the memories that Malcolm had somehow lost? From around the time of the girl in the box? “Awwww, you don’t remember that little lesson? I am hurt boy, truly hurt. . . and you won’t like it when I feel hurt. . .” John said, his words beginning in a mocking tone but ending in a deadly growl. With that the entire room was shrouded in darkness again, and Malcolm cried out against it, yanking hard on his chains and shaking his head. He couldn’t let the killer leave him here! He couldn’t! 

“NO, PAUL WAIT! I’M SORRY, OK, I’M SORRY!!” he screamed, “I . . .I’m sure I’ve been in a room like this before, I . . . I just don’t remember it! Please, help me remember what this room is for! Why am I here? What happens now?! PAUL JUST PLEASE TALK TO ME!!!”For a few minutes he only breathed hard, short breaths as he was left there in the dark, his lips trembling from his outburst. Then . . . “I told you the last time I put you in a place like this what it was for, Little Malcolm,” John purr rattled through the vent.

Malcolm grit his teeth at the joy in the man’s voice that betrayed the happiness he obviously felt at his captive’s panic, but remained silent as John continued, “I have made rooms just like that one specifically for people to stay in while they think about what they’ve done wrong. So that they can have some time to . . . reflect, on their poor decisions. And damn kid, have you made a lot of them.” Malcolm grit his teeth, his limbs shaking as they were forced to keep him standing. 

After a slight pause, as if to see if Malcolm would reject his claim, John continued, “Of course, probably the worst decision you’ve ever made is the one where you just couldn’t seem to keep your trap shut and just had to put your nose in the middle of everyone’s business. If you had done that you wouldn’t have gotten your dear old daddy locked up, and you wouldn’t have ruined your family.” Malcolm grit his teeth tightly together, and shook his head, “I . . . I didn’t. . . I didn’t ruin my family,” he whispered. John’s chuckle rolled out of the vent in reply, before the man pressed forward, “You can lie to a lot of people, boy, but you can’t lie to me. Not here, not ever. Besides, you know you ruined them, hell it’s been paraded in front of you all of your life. In front of everyone, really. Anyone who has ever cared to look at the doomed Whitly family.” 

Malcolm shut his eyes tight, shaking his head again, “N-no, I d-d-didn’t. . . I. . .” “Oh, so your mother didn’t turn to alcoholism when your little reveal about Martin sent her social life spiraling?” John said in mock curiosity, as if bewildered. Malcolm bit his lip again, opening his eyes, unable to stop the tears from forming. Almost immediately he could see Jessica, the way she’d looked when he was ten, draining half of a bottle of her finest wine when she thought no one was looking, tears streaking down her face after being rejected by another host of a charity event. In her emotional state, she hadn’t seen her son peeking around the corner. Malcolm shut his eyes tight, forcing the words out, “T-that’s not my f-faul-” He gripped the chains tighter in his fingers.

“And your little sister, Ainsley, is it? Are you telling me she didn’t have to grow up in the shadow of your family’s horrible reputation? The reputation that your reveal of your father’s crimes caused? Really, she was the bravest out of the two of you, wasn’t she? You fled from the reputation YOU created for your family. Changed your name, joined the motherfucking F. B. I. Meanwhile, Ainsley decided to stick with that reputation, to try to make the most of things. . . but in spite of all that hard work, she still is stuck doing stupid on site coverage, when you and I both know she should be behind an anchor desk. I wonder why that is? Who do you think caused all of that?” Malcolm shook his head slowly in the dark, sucking in deep breath after deep breath, his stomach heaving with each one, more blood pouring forth from the wound there. All of Ainsley’s complaints reverberated in his mind about all the times she’d been passed up for a promotion or opportunity for no good reason. “I . . . I didn’t . . . didn’t cause any of that. It. . . It was my father’s fault. He k-killed all those people,” he whispered brokenly, every accusation the man had made still hitting his back like a whip, even if he had spent hours telling himself that none of it was his fault for years. . .

“H-he had his own life, had wealth, fame, a good career, a family that adored him, and then he decided that we weren’t enough. . . that I wasn’t enough. . .” he mumbled the last words of the mantra he’d said to himself over and over again, first in his therapist’s office and later to himself in the dead of night when his courage failed him. He shook his head, his whole body shaking, “I didn’t hurt our family,” he whispered softly, head lulling to rest against one arm, his bloody cheek pressing against the straining limb . . . “He did that. . . I didn’t. . .” 

“Now son, you know that that is just not true,” Martin’s voice said suddenly, and Malcolm’s eyes widened as he jerked his head up, staring ahead of himself, where the voice had seemed to come from. The light was still off, but instead of the darkness being his only view there Martin stood, standing in the darkness of the closet. Malcolm’s heart raced, his dad wearing the same clothing he’d worn the night of his arrest instead of the clothing Malcolm had by now grown used to see him in. No, there Martin Whitly stood before him as he had stood many times in his prime, his hair dark and perfectly trimmed up, not streaked with grey and left wild like Malcolm had seen it so many times now. . . Malcolm grit his teeth, pulling his head away and shaking it, eyes not leaving the hallucination before him, “N-no. . .Y-you’re n-not r-real, n-not here. . .” he whispered weakly, shaking his head, “Y-you’re n-not. . .” he whimpered, his voice trailing off as he gazed into those cool, calm eyes that haunted his mind so many times.

Martin sighed, giving him a sympathetic look with a tinge of disappointment to it, and took a step closer, the edge of his khaki pants just an inch from the rusty old chair, his fuzzy sweater about half a foot from Malcolm’s battered, hurt body. “Now, my boy, you and I both know I’ll always be here,” the man whispered softly, shaking his head, “Just like I was always there for you, for Ainsley, for all of our family before.”

“You ABANDONED your family!” Malcolm snapped, yanking on his chains as he spoke to the phantom before him, tears pouring down his cheeks, all of the frustration and fear he felt turned to anger that he let flow into his words, temporarily forgetting Paul might even be listening, “ADMIT IT! WE WEREN’T ENOUGH FOR YOU AND YOU FUCKING ABANDONED US!” he spat, glaring hatefully at Martin, “YOU ABANDONED YOUR HAPPY LIFE WITH US WHEN YOU STARTED KILLING PEOPLE! INNOCENT PEOPLE!” 

Martin sighed, shaking his head, frowning at Malcolm, as if he had gotten the answer to an easy math problem like 2+2 horribly wrong. It infuriated Malcolm to no end, especially since at the back of his mind he wanted his father’s approval and respect more than anything, even if he didn’t show it. “No, Malcolm, you know I didn’t abandon you. . .” “BUT YOU DID! JUST ADMIT THAT YOU DID!” Malcolm sobbed, tears streaking fully down his cheeks now.

Martin locked cold eyes with him, frowning hard at his son, “Really? Then tell me, what was I doing, while I was killing all those people, huh? Tell me, as a KILLER was I ignoring my precious family? No. . . no I don’t think so. . . the way I recall it, I was attending your private school award ceremonies, cheering on my brilliant boy and being nothing more and nothing less than his PROUD PAPA,” the man held up one finger to symbolize that point he thought he’d made. Malcolm couldn’t help but flinch, able to remember the look of pride Martin had given him each time Malcolm had walked up to him, smiling shyly and showing him the plaque or trophy he’d just received. . .

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about that though. . . maybe we should focus on your mother, hmm? My wife? While I was destroying lives, like you’ve put it so many times, I was also going to countless social functions with Jessica so that she could flaunt her BRILLIANT SURGEON of a husband to the members of her higher society. Every success I had was fertilizer for her, enabling her to move up more in the social hierarchy. And I stood there, obediently smiling and getting along with everyone even when I found the conversations dull and unappealing, didn’t I?” Martin flicked the second finger up, and Malcolm grit his teeth, able to remember glancing down at his father from the top of the stairs as he and Jessica had held one particularly large Christmas party for the Upper East Elite, the couple having been congregating with a number of people in the foyer of their large home. At one point Martin had rolled his eyes when no one was looking, standing there in his expensive tux, and his eyes had met Malcolm’s. Rather than frown at his son who had snuck down out of bed, the man had just smiled at him, nodded at him in a way that told him to go back to bed, before proceeding to turn and laugh at whatever someone else had said. 

“But what about your sister, hmmm? Surely I wronged her in some way? I can tell she’s always felt ignored by me. . . but no, as I recall it, I spent my nights watching Ainsley’s little ballet recitals, watching as those little four year olds flounced around the stage. They really had about as much grace as bulls in a china shop, but the second my little girl got on that stage. . . Well, she was the only one worth viewing, since me and her had practiced for HOURS at home. Back when I was her FATHER and her COACH, making sure she was the best she could be.” Malcolm bit his lip as he gazed at the phantom before him. Able to imagine that as well as the image of the man flipped up a third finger before curling all but his pointer finger and pointing it at Malcolm, a darker look forming in his eyes, “So, my boy. . .Back to the issue at hand. Say whatever else you want, but DO NOT SAY I ABANDONED my family, son. Not when you KNOW I didn’t do that. We all had a wonderful life before you did what you did. And it’s your fault that all of that came to such a horrible end. Admit it, boy. Admit it to me, admit it to John. He’s always known that would happen, I think. . . maybe I should have listened . . .”

Malcolm shook his head, sobbing with his eyes shut tight, every word like a punch to the gut, his hands shaking horribly in their chains. It was liked being trapped in one of his night terrors, only without being asleep. It all felt so real, like his father was really standing in front of him, accusing him of such things. He knew he must have gone past his prescribed hours to take his medication for it to be this bad. “Please st-stop,” he whispered hoarsely, knowing he couldn’t just ignore the phantom before him as it accused him of things he’d thought multiple times over the years. Many of those times had been when he’d been at his lowest. It had taken so many therapy sessions to help him work through the guilt, over and over again. . . “I’ll stop when you admit that you’re wrong, my boy, and not a second more,” Martin said in a way that hinted that he was dealing with someone who was particularly slow on the uptake.

“B-But I’m not . . .” Malcolm whimpered, before looking up at the phantom. “You were still killing people. All of those ‘good family moments’, all the things you claim prove that you didn’t abandon us. . . they were all a lie, a sham you used to hide yourself from society,” he sucked in a deep, rattling breath before continuing, “We didn’t really matter to you, you just ACTED like we did. All that time the feelings you ‘had’ for us, that you made us feel for you. . . they weren’t REA-” 

“Did it make the love you felt for me as I held you close and read to you about Sherlock Holmes any less real when I removed Billie Franklin’s heart just a few hours later?” the man before him murmured softly. Malcolm shuddered and shook his head, heart hammering in his chest as he saw his father lift up a foot as if to step onto the chair. . . he whimpered and backed up in the chair, straining in his cuffs as the phantom stepped up onto it. 

He shut his eyes tight, and felt the feeling of the firm, gentle hands of the monster who represented his father pressing against his cheeks, offering comfort he didn’t want, now or ever. “St-stop. . . Don’t touch me,” he whispered, voice trembling along with his violently jerking hands. 

“Look at me, boy,” Martin whispered. Malcolm’s eyes slowly slid open, tears streaking down his cheeks as the phantom stroked them away gently, as if Malcolm might break at any second, his dark eyes boring into hi son’s, “Did me removing Abigail Conway’s tongue the night before make the concern you saw me have for you when that boy pushed you out of the swing at the park any less there? When I held you close as you cried after he made you hit your head and skin your knees, Malcolm?” Malcolm shook his head quickly, trying to jerk those hands off of him, “G-get away. . . get away from me. . .” 

“But I’ll never go away, Malcolm. You know that, and I know that,” Martin murmured softly, a deep rumble of a voice coming up from his throat, leaning closer and pressing a cold kiss to Malcolm’s shivering, sweat and blood covered forehead. Malcolm jerked, eyes shut tight, as he felt the phantom’s breath on his skin as he pulled back, “Because I’m not the one who abandons everyone, my boy. You did. You abandoned me in that cell when you left for Quantico, abandoned our family when you changed your name. . . and then you left Gil to go chase after a killer, knowing Gil would have advised against that . . . going against the one man after me who truly cared for you. . . I bet he’s so worried about you right now, my boy, all because of what you have done.” with that the man’s long arms wrapped around Malcolm slowly, about to hug him. . . “No! Stop!” He screamed, jerking back further, his calves slamming into the back of the chair and knocking it to the ground. 

Malcolm slammed against the wall behind him, his back and head exploding in pain, the chair folding back up and clattering to the floor as Martin stepped closer, eyes solemn as he watched his boy swing back and forth, a look of sadness on the Surgeon's face, “I won’t stop loving you, my boy, even if you don’t love me. . . You know that.” Malcolm jerked his head, shaking it, tears streaking down as his wrists were dug into, his feet kicking out and trying to find purchase against the walls as he swung viciously back and forth, yanking on his hands in a desperate attempt to wrench them out of the hook holding him tethered to the ceiling, “N-no, you d-d-don’t. . . y-you c-c-can’t. . . you’re a narcissistic sociopath. . . you only love yourself. . . I care about people, I’m the one who loves others. . . I’m the one who loves others, when you c-c-can’t. . .” 

The strain on his upper body to hold him up without the chair beneath him made it even harder to breathe, and his vision became spotty, his mind fading in and out. Still, Martin was there, his red sweater just as bright as it had been moments before, arms shoved in his pockets as he watched his son struggle. Not bothering to help. . . because he wasn’t really there, Malcolm told himself. . . “PAUL PLEASE, HELP ME! I . . . I CAN’T. . .” he screamed in his panic, his breath growing shorter, more labored. He shook his head as his lungs screamed in agony, “I c-can’t. . .” with that the hook actually came loose, and Malcolm’s body slammed into the back left corner of the room, side first, making pain shoot through him as he felt that ankle snap when he fell on it wrong.

He screamed, head thrown back and eyes shut as he lay in the dark, gripping at the ankle with his cuffed wrists, before shooting his eyes open and gazing out at the abyss, his lungs expanding quickly as he hungrily gasped for more air, the new pain adding to the others coursing through him. At least his father was gone though, he thought, shuddering as he laid his panting head on the carpet, eyes shut tight again as he tried to focus on his breathing and heart rate, trying to slow them both down. . . 

Suddenly a grimy, slender hand was on his wrists, the smell of death filling the air around him. The hand felt odd to Malcolm, gnarled as if rotting, and his whole body froze up. He suddenly felt a long, female body move up behind him, cold and with a residue covering its nudity, pressing against the full length of his curled up form. 

Malcolm’s eyes shot open, and he began to breathe even quicker, as long, dirty hair brushed over his shoulder, chapped lips that smelled of wet mold pressing against his ear. “But if you cared about people so much, then why did it take you so long to tell them about me, Malcolm? Why couldn’t you save me? Why couldn’t they get to me in time?”

Malcolm whipped his head around, staring at the being crouched down behind him, mouth open and eyes wide in horror, not even able to breathe as he stared at this newest phantom his mind had concocted. The dead girl’s eyes stared at him, her skin rotting with dirt, moss, and mold caking skin that while it might once have been smooth and beautiful was now littered with cuts and had turned a dull grey color. Her once beautiful blonde hair hung in dirt ridden tendrils away from her face that gazed, silently accusing, at him. One ear was rotted away to a blackened stump, and a large slash held her opposite cheek open, a beetle crawling out of it. Malcolm shuddered, one of her eyes having a slash mark going down through it. . . And speaking of her scary green eyes. . . they stared at him so accusingly, letting him know just who was laying behind him in the dark. Malcolm sobbed softly as he realized who this hallucination was supposed to be. 

Even rotting away, he knew who this was, which phantom visited him now. . . the dirty, rotting hand missing two fingers slid up his arm, leaving a dark, dirty trail in its wake as the girl in the box frowned at him. He glanced at those fingers, alternating between looking at them and at her face, before they were sliding up his throat, clenching it a little and moving to his cheek, cradling his chin. “I. . . I t-trie. . .” he began, the rotting stench of the corpse threatening to strangle him, “I tried to tell them. . . h-he’d already moved you . . . I’ve. . . I’ve been trying to find out who you are. . . wh-what happened t-t-to y-y-y-you. . . to . . . to make things right.” Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned closer, her dirty thumb tracing his lip, and he whimpered, trying to jerk his head away only for her hand to follow as she breathed on his lips, “Then why don’t you know who I am, if you’ve been trying so hard?”

At that moment, the door to the cell flung open, and the phantom disappeared with the sudden light streaming into the space. Malcolm jerked his head up, staring wide eyed at the door, half expecting Martin to be standing there, still partially trapped inside his horror of a mind. . . But there stood John, in dark blue jeans, black boots, and a black T-shirt, his cold eyes focused on Malcolm, his lips curled in an amused smile, “Well I will admit, of all the people I’ve stuck in places like this, none of them have quite. . . reacted the way you did, Little Malcolm. At least not like this.” the man chuckled and Malcolm cringed.

Malcolm grit his teeth as the man flicked on the light to the room before taking a step closer and into the small space before kneeling down, crouching beside the fallen man. Malcolm bit his lip and tried to curl in tighter to himself as John tilted his head to the side, “So, I take it you just had two very powerful hallucinations boy? Huh, didn’t take you for the druggie type.” Malcolm shook his head, finally finding his voice, “I. . . I’m not. . .” he whispered shakily, noting how clammier his trembling body was now. 

The killer arched his dark eyebrows up, and let out a whistle, “So, hallucinations that are that strong and not caused by drugs? Just by exhaustion and stress? That’s pretty fucking impressive.” “I hardly think so,” Malcolm muttered, sighing and letting his head fall back, laying it on the floor and closing his tired eyes, heaving a deep, exhausted breath. Even though he’d only recently woken up, he felt beyond exhausted, either by the blood loss or the hallucinations. John sneered at the profiler laying so beautifully broken and vulnerable before him. He could get used to that look. . . “Well it’s a good thing for you that I think so, boy.” 

With that he stood up, clapping his hands firmly on the thighs of his jeans, “After all, it means your time in my little makeshift confessional here is gonna be cut a bit shorter. Come on now, time to go meet my Holy Mother and the Good Father. They’ve been waiting for us for some time now.” Leaning forward and down he grabbed Malcolm’s broken ankle, chuckling as Malcolm gasped in response, eyes shooting open as his foot jerked reflexively in the harsh man’s firm grasp. It was as John chuckled and began dragging Malcolm from the closet and through the dust and cobweb covered remains of a boy’s old bedroom if the sports comforter covered bed and tiny dresser were any indication, and over scattered toys, books, and puzzles that had been left strewn about, that Malcolm finally processed something he said. . . 

“M-mother?” he whispered hoarsely, not sure if he had heard John right, rolling his head over and grunting as a wooden block smacked against the back of it. John chuckled darkly, glancing over his shoulder at Malcolm, “Yeah, my mother. Not my real one, of course, . . . the fucking whore. . . but let’s just say she helped me become who I am today. So yeah, I consider her my mother, no matter how horrible of one she was. . . She’s got a sewing kit in her room I think . . . Maybe we can get it and I can stitch up that nasty gash you made in your stomach before. Then we can fucking keep moving. Hell, you can tell me, her, and the Good Father all about those hallucinations of yours while I do that. But don’t think that means we won’t continue our little . . . DISCUSSION from before. . .” With that he twisted out of his childhood bedroom and Malcolm got a view of the dark metal cross, originally black but now grey due to the dust caked upon it, hanging right over the inner door frame of the room, moments before John yanked hard on his ankle to get him out of his childhood sanctuary and into the hallway. Malcolm’s body twisted with the sharp movement, landing his head hard against the door frame. He yelped and fell quiet on contact, passing out finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, what'd ya think? I know I got pretty "real" with the Martin and Girl in the Box, buuuut, given how stressed out Malcolm was this chapter, and how exhausted he is, and his already shaky mental emotional state in the show, I figured this would work! I certainly hope you agree with that, and hope that you all enjoyed this chapter! And yessss, we are in Paul's childhood home, at least for a moment! Although things are not quite the same as they were in the show, trust me! I am trying to alternate updates for this story with updates for my Walking Dead fic "Within the Sanctuary's Walls", so it might be more than a week or so before you get another update here. Just as a heads up. But trust me, I will be working hard on the next chapter, and hell, it might even be out sooner than that! Thank you you guys so much for reading! Love you all, and again, please be safe!

**Author's Note:**

> So love it? Hate it? How many of you are ready for more? As a heads up, I am not planning on this to be a huge monster of a story, although I hope it will have plenty of morbid angsty awesomeness to go around! Until next time, and please leave a comment below!


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